


ashes to ashes

by mitikune



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Artist Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Assassination, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Coffee Shops, Confessions, Emotional Manipulation, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Mafia AU, Mafia GeorgeNotFound, Major Character Injury, Manipulation, Mutual Pining, No beta we die like hunters in manhunt, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smoking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, for ~plot reasons~, george smokes, george works for the mafia, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitikune/pseuds/mitikune
Summary: George works for the Mafia. He isn't supposed to get attached to anyone.But the boy from the coffee shop, the boy from the park, the boy who stays out at night waiting for him just so they can watch the stars together...He is not supposed to get attached to anyone. And this is why.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 194
Kudos: 217





	1. in the stars

**Author's Note:**

> PLS HELP THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A ONESHOT BUT WHEN I CHECKED THE WORD COUNT ALTOGETHER WHAT I HAD WRITTEN WAS 2.5K AND I WAS NOWHERE NEAR DONE SO I GUESS ITS ANOTHER MULTICHAPTER DNF FIC HERE WE GO

The kill was swift and clean, and George was grateful for it. All that splashed on him was a few droplets of blood, rather than a bucket load. There hadn't been much of a fight, because George hadn't blown his cover this time. Who knew it made things so much easier when you weren't caught?

As much as it was appealing to be sloppy and walk out in the streets, praying the dimness of amber-hued streetlights wouldn't give away his deeds by the scarlet blood that was hidden on his coat, he began to strip it off. "That was a good jacket," he muttered to himself as he fished through his jeans pocket, pulling out matches. He lit one, two, three, four, five, and tossed them along with a bit of starter fuel into the victim's fireplace. Not like he'd be needing it anymore, from the other side. Once the fire was roaring, he tossed in his jacket and inspected himself for any more droplets of blood. Finding a few on his shoes, he sighed in exasperation and headed into the kitchen. He tore off a paper towel from the rack, wetting it, and dabbing the blood carefully off. 

He headed into the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He was met with a pale face, hollowed brown eyes with deep, dark sags under them. He grimaced, fixing his hair and straightening his shirt. No reason a murderer can't look spiffy, right?

No, he didn't like that word. He wasn't a murderer, he thought to himself as he walked back up to the scene of the, well, murder, and began packing up his tools after cleaning them off. No, he wasn't a murderer; he was an agent. This just happened to be a job in his line of work. Nothing wrong with that. Murder was okay, sometimes.

He hummed in content, before glancing over at the body, leaking blood into the floorboards. He sighed, moving over and being careful not to soil his clothes again as he maneuvered the body into a sitting position against the wall. A hand was raised to gently close the body's eyelids, and he made the body look presentable. Not to disguise his actions, no, it was clear what had happened here. He supposed it was just out of respect. He sat there for a moment, studying the body with a somber sigh. _"...Requiescat in Pace,"_ he murmured, before standing. He wasn't at all fluent in Latin, but he'd found that it brought him a bit of console to wish those that he killed goodness in the afterlife, anyway.

He stood, brushing dust off the knees of his jeans, before glancing over at the open window where he'd entered. He hopped back out, giving one last look at the apartment, before silently closing the window and exiting down the fire escape. 

-

With another job well done meant another reward. it was tradition, he'd made it so, to get a coffee and a muffin after every successful job. To "ease the pain", he'd always told himself. He paid for the standard drink and muffin, when he'd turned back around and bumped into someone. He gasped, the coffee splashing all over this tall stranger. "Oh, shit! I'm sorry, are you okay?"

"That's hot!" The stranger let out a little laugh, fumbling to hold the shirt with the burning coffee away from his skin.

"I'm so sorry!" George stumbled out, grabbing paper towel and hastily trying to wipe it up. "God, and of course you were wearing a white shirt, I'm so sorry." This must be some sort of karma for him not leaving that house covered in blood, fate had decided to cover a very tall stranger in burning coffee to make it even. Well, fuck you too, fate. 

"Ah it's alright, don't worry! This is a painting shirt anyway, it's a toss-out," the man replied, stilling George's frantic hands with his own. 

George paused as the warm hands slid over his own. They were so much larger in comparison, tanner, freckle-spotted, and calloused. With... dashes of paint on them. Painting shirt. The man before him was an artist, possibly a well-known one, and he'd just spilled coffee on him. "God, I'm sorry," George laughed out again, clearly embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it!" Dream chimed, smiling and giving his head a pat. "It was an accident, those happen."

"I'm so sorry, I'd offer you a shirt of mine, but I don't know if it would fit," George laughed a bit. 

" _A_ shirt? Implying you're wearing more than one?"

"Yeah, actually," George rubbed the back of his neck. "I always wear two shirts."

"Why?" The man asked, grinning down at him. "You get cold easily?"

_That, or so if I fuck up a job, I have another shirt to fall back on._ "Yeah."

The stranger before him let out a laugh. Apparently he found that hilarious. "You live in Florida, son! And you still get cold easy?"

George grinned a bit sheepishly, allowing himself to indulge as he soaked up the features of the man before him. He was tall, his hair a dirty blonde that seemed to have flecks of gold itself in it. It was pretty long, in George's regard for male hair. It wasn't quite shoulder-length, but it was long and curly, and yet it looked as if he was unaware of the invention of a hairbrush. His eyes were a hazel-like green, wide and round like a doe. He had even more freckles on his cheeks, so carefully and perfectly placed it was as if someone had drawn them on by hand. His smile stretched across his face, wide and intoxicating. It seemed to demand all attention, and it was so contagious that George felt himself smiling as well. The stranger was definitely attractive, George could admit that to himself, not that it meant anything beyond that. 

That was the shitty thing about the mafia. Well- there were a lot of shitty things about the mafia, but this in particular was one of the ones that he despised. You couldn't have any ties to anyone. George had joined because all of his family had died in an accident when he was little, and he raised himself anyway. He wouldn't be putting anyone in danger if he was involved with things like this, or if he got caught, he wouldn't be disappointing anyone. Plus, it paid the bills, and gave him a "family" to fall back on. 

"I guess," George laughed a bit, fidgeting with his fingers. "Do you- um... were you going to order anything? From here? I can pay, since I spilled all over you." His face went bright red. "The coffee! I meant- I spilled my drink," he interjected, then realizing by the way the stranger's face contorted and he started laughing again that he definitely did not need to specify that, he groaned and hid his face in his hands. 

"No, no. If anything, I should pay for yours, since it's all over me," he stepped in front of George to the counter. "One caramel latte, and whatever the fellow before me ordered, another of those!" He smiled, setting the bills and a hefty tip on the counter before George could interject. 

"Oh my god," George fished through his wallet, fumbling through bills. "Here, take this..."

"No!" He raised his hands above his head, "absolutely not! Put your wallet away!"

"Please take this, I spilled hot coffee on you!" George protested again. 

"Nope!" The annoying stranger ruffled his hair, and then extended a hand. "Dream."

George blinked, staring at the hand, pushing the money into it. The man pulled his hand back immediately, not taking the bills. "No!" He laughed again, "that's my name. My name is Dream. I'm introducing myself."

"Oh!" George squeaked, smiling sheepishly. It'd been a while since he'd interacted in a way that wasn't murderous with anyone outside of the family. He quickly took Dream's hand, shaking it firmly. And in doing so, he pushed the bills into his hand and pulled his hand back before he could put them in his again. "Hah!" He smirked, "I win."

Dream groaned. "You sly man!"

George smirked, putting his hands in his pockets as Dream turned when his name was called. He picked up the two coffee drinks, handing one to George, and holding one for himself. He immediately took a step back once George had it in his hands, and George laughed. He took a few sips with a hum, before politely smiling. "It was nice to meet you, but I have to move onto the other half of my night."

"Mm?" Dream hummed with a mouth full of coffee, and after swallowing, tried again. "Where are you going?"

"I go to the park. It's usually vacant this time of night," George shrugged. "I just like to look at the stars and smoke."

"You smoke?" Dream tilted his head, and George nodded. "Ah."

"Bad habit, but," George shrugged. "Can't find it in me to care so much. It was nice to meet you, though."

"Well you- you said the park is usually vacant right now... doesn't it get lonely, with no company?" Dream asked. 

"Sometimes? But that's kind of why I go," George glanced aside. 

"...can I go with you?" 

George was taken aback by the question, and he blinked, taking another contemplative sip of his coffee. "If you don't mind smoke."

"Not at all," Dream grinned. "Lead the way."

George nodded his head, and headed out into the street. "Why did you want to come?" He asked as he walked down the sidewalk.

Dream shrugged, staring down at the sidewalk as he walked, and George noted he was avoiding cracks. "Nothing better to do, and you've piqued my interest. You're a funny little man."

George blushed a bit, raising his eyebrows at the other. "...thank you?"

"You're welcome!" Dream grinned broadly, continuing to walk with him. It wasn't long before they rounded the corner nearest the park, approaching a table. "So you said you like the stars?"

"The sky in general, actually," he admitted, sitting on the top of the table and looking up. "It's a comfort thing. You want a cig?"

"No," Dream put a hand up, "that kind of thing isn't for me."

George nodded. "Good," he replied, lighting a cigarette of his own and pressing it to his lips. He took a breath in, and felt his eyes water and his lungs burn. He pulled away and coughed, feeling his throat ache. 

Dream studied him, and he raised an eyebrow. "...if it hurts you, why do you do it?"

George looked over at him, blinking back the watery tears in his eyes from coughing. "What?"

"Smoking. It makes you cough. Why do you do it?" Dream pressed again. 

"Ah, I..." George chuckled a bit, looking down. "I just do. I have to."

He didn't seem to want to discuss it further, so Dream dropped it and looked up at the stars. "And the stars? What of them are comforting to you?"

"If I think about it long enough," George murmured, "I swear I can see the faces of people I've lost in the stars."

Dream looked over at him. "You've lost someone?"

"I've lost everyone."

-

It wasn't until he had gotten home and checked his gone to hang up his jacket on the coatrack when five dollar bills floated out of his pocket, along with a note scrawled on the napkin of a familiar coffee restaurant. 

_"Gotcha. ;)"_


	2. through the cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George tries to think logically.

The next kill was one he didn't even need to dirty his hands for. He was perched upon the rafters, watching the rich bigots talk and laugh amongst themselves. He grumbled, slowly pulling a single white pill from a pouch strapped to his hip. He examined it, before looking down. If he dropped it, right now, it would land in his tea cup. Perfect. Just had to wait for an opportune time. 

And it struck when the men both excused themselves from the table to take a smoke break outside. George plopped the pill in, watching it dissolve nearly immediately. And then he sat back and got ready fo the show.

Minutes later, when the men walked back in and positioned themselves to sit back down, George smirked as he cockily allowed his legs to dangle off the edge of the rafters. Neither men seemed to notice, and he silently laughed. He watched the one closest to him take a sip of his tea, and George readied his knife. When the other man began to convulse and scream, and the other stood to console him, George simply lazily tossed the knife into his neck. He collapsed to the ground with a gurgled shriek, and George hopped off the rafters. He moved over to his knife, ripping it out and properly slitting his throat before moving over to the one still convulsing and twitching from poison. He leaned down on his face.

While his smile was cocky, his eyes were sincere. _"Requiescat in Pace,"_ he breathed, watching the man's fearful eyes go dull and lifeless. He sighed, running gentle fingertips down his face and allowing his eyes to flutter closed. He stood up, dusting himself off and retrieving his knife. He wiped it off on the dead man's shirt, before tucking it back into its sheath. 

And just like that, off he went.

-

The coffee shop was a bit more lively today, and he smiled at the familiar, resounding chime as he opened the door and let it shut behind him. He moved forward to order, before hearing a shout behind him. He spun around, and then grinned. Dream clambered to his feet, pushing a drink towards him. "I- I already ordered for you," he smiled.

George blinked. "Huh? How did you know what I wanted?"

"You come here all the time, and I asked the barista, and she said you get the same thing every time, so... I just kinda guessed," he smiled. "But I- I mean, I can just trash it if you don't want it--"

"No, it's great." George was going to try something new today, but with this gesture, he isn't sure he can bring himself to get anything different ever again. "Have you been waiting for me?"

"Kinda? I asked the barista how often you stop by, and she said around this time every day, so... Here I am," Dream grinned at him. "That a problem?"

"No, not at all," George smiled, taking a sip of coffee. 

"Are you going to the park today?" Dream asked, rocking back and forth on his feet.

"Yeah, we can head there now," George nodded, giving a wave of thanks to the barista, who waved in return, and then the two of them began to walk to the park.

"So what do you do before this?" Dream asked, avoiding the cracks on the sidewalk again. "Do you work?"

"Yeah," George said lamely, taking another sip of his coffee to try to buy himself some time to come up with a convincing lie for what he knew Dream would ask next.

"What do you do?"

There it was.

George hummed through the coffee, and he decided to mutter, "accountant." No one ever bothers to ask questions when you tell them you work a boring job. And sure enough, Dream didn't press any further. "What do you do?"

"I'm an artist," Dream replied, humming. "Portrait painter specifically. I like to paint scenes, paint people's faces and tell their stories through art," Dream chimed with a big smile. "I'm very passionate about my work."

_Well, at least someone was._

"That's good," George replied. "Does it pay well?" He asked, out of pure curiosity, really.

"It's enough," Dream shrugged his shoulders. 

George gave an understanding nod as he approached the bench. He stood atop it and then sat down on the picnic table, not noticing the way Dream lagged behind. His head tipped up to look at the stars, the full moon casing a soft hue down on his face. The light filtered through his fringe and caught on his high-cheekbones, making his eyes twinkle, just like the stars. Dream put his hands in his pockets, examining the sight, before taking a few steps forward and sitting beside him. "You're beautiful."

George nearly choked.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're beautiful," Dream said again, looking over at him shamelessly. "You're aesthetically gorgeous, especially in this light." George felt his cheeks heat up and turn a rosy hue, and Dream laughed, pointing at him. "You just keep getting prettier!"

George turned his head to the side, taking a hasty sip of his coffee to avoid confronting the warmth that spread through his chest, but he wound up actually choking at the artists next words.

"May I paint you?"

"Wh- what?" George breathed, looking over at him.

"Your portrait. May I paint you? Particularly the way you are right now. Look back at the sky," Dream scooted back on the table a bit, pulling out his phone. "I'm gonna take a reference photo. Not that I need it."

George did as instructed, gazing back at the sky and hearing a camera shutter click. "Not that you need it?" He asked when the other tucked his phone away.

"I have a photographic memory," Dream tapped his temple. "Picture is for my own keeping."

George gave a bit of a nervous smile, before glancing away again. Oh yes, it's always reassuring to have pictures of himself on strangers phones, that could be tracked back to him and get the innocent person in trouble. "...you really shouldn't keep that photo."

"Why?" Dream asked, "I took it really well, look!"

"No, no, I'm not- I'm not doubting your photography skills," George smiled in amusement as he glanced at the picture of himself. He really did look enamored by the stars. It was a good look. Painted, he was sure to look even better. He thought that anything painted under Dream's skilled fingers would be a masterpiece. "I'm just saying that... I dunno, it's scary to have pictures of strangers on your phone. Never know who they could really be."

"Aw, well, I don't think you could do any harm!" Dream smiled, patting George's shoulder. "I've been told I'm a pretty annoying dude, if you wanted to kill me, I'm sure you would've done so by now."

George laughed at it, and it felt okay to laugh. It felt okay to find it funny, even if it was wrong. It felt nice. "You're right. I have no intentions of killing you, at least."

"Oh! Well, that's good, at least!"

-

The days and nights went by, as did the killings. George sat in his room at his desk, in front of his laptop which was open to a blank document. 

_Dream,_

_I'm a dangerous man._

George scoffed, deleting that immediately. 'Dangerous man' sounded like the beginning of some kind of BDSM porno. He sighed, cleared his head, and tried again.

_Dream,_

_I could get you in serious trouble._

That sounded condescending. Tweak it a bit.

_Dream,_

_You could get in real, serious trouble by associating with me._

Better!

_I'm not who you think I am._

Worse. But, he'll keep it. Sounds edgy.

_I'm involved with a lot of very powerful, very lethal people; cruel, sadistic, powerful people that wouldn't hesitate to use you against me. Just being around you in_ _public could possibly endanger you if we're in the wrong place at the wrong time. If someone from the opposing Mafia gang sees you..._

George sighed, feeling sick thinking about it. Dream's smile played on repeat in his mind, and the lingering question of 'Can I paint you?' hasn't left his head since it had been spoken. He'd asked Dream a few times how it had been coming along, but he always just told him to 'trust the process'. 

He wished he had time to sit back and trust the process on this one.

_I don't know how you did it. I'm always so careful to keep myself isolated from the rest of the world. Somehow you slipped through the cracks of the walls I've spent my whole life perfecting. You, coffee, late nights under the stars..._

George wasn't a regular person. He was sure anyone with eyes could see that. His fashion sense was... questionable, definitely out of the ordinary and a bit old-fashioned. George's social skills? Practically nonexistent. Yet, Dream had been so patient with him, he often told him what he was doing before he did it so George didn't have to guess and risk being wrong. It was just one of the many ways that Dream accommodated and fit him so well. 

One of the many reasons he hated writing this letter and saying goodbye.

_You brought things out of me and gave me things I didn't know I needed. A friend, a confidant, a stranger to drink coffee with under the blanket of stars. You're a great man, Dream. I really, truthfully wish this could continue. I'd love nothing more than to get to know you, one caramel latte at a time. But..._

George's fingers stilled, resting idly on the keys. He finally shut his laptop and leaned back against his chair, rubbing his face with his hands. What was he doing? Why did it matter so much? He'd only known Dream for a few weeks, it wasn't like they were engaged. He didn't owe him any explanation or goodbye at all. They were just acquaintances that happened to have a few shared coincidences and a good taste in relaxing evenings. 

His phone dinged, and he lifted it. A text from an unknown number. He skimmed over the contents before sighing and standing. He swung his pouch over his shoulder and grabbed his weapons, heading over to the window. He glanced over at his laptop briefly, before looking back at the window.

He pushed it open and hopped out.


	3. beauty in ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Knowing me might just kill you."

George was known for his rather sloppy kills. It was his achilles heel. Stealth was never his strong suit, and he almost always messed things up. He'd had a good streak thus far, but apparently that luck ended today.

All because of a single creaky floorboard.

His breath stopped in his lungs as he saw the woman sit up straight in bed, removing her blindfold and catching his gaze. George didn't have time to think, he just grabbed his dagger and threw it at her. She was quicker, and she ducked, rolling out of bed and rushing him.

George spun on his heel, sprinting down the stairs. She was in close pursuit, and now she had his dagger. _Good job, George, you gave her a weapon!_

He managed to put some distance between her and him by pushing a bookshelf after himself, but it wasn't enough. He ducked, knowing she'd throw the dagger, but he didn't move completely out of the way fast enough. He let out a cry as he felt a gash open in his arm, tearing through his shirts and cutting skin. He stumbled, back hitting the wall, opposite hand moving to clutch the bleeding gash on his arm. He spun around to look at her, eyes wide. She had jumped the bookshelf, and was now hurling towards him, managing to grab the knife from the ground and tackle him to the floor.

It was a valiant struggle, George shoved at her before feeling another gash along his chest. Thankfully not as deep, as he'd managed to swat her hand away before she could drive it in. In his frenzy, a thought popped into his head. 

It was a small thought, but one not easily pushed aside. 

_Is this it? Did I fuck things up too bad this time?_

He usually wouldn't be afraid of that. At least, not as afraid as he should be. And even then, it wasn't quite fear. It was more... sorrow, more regret, more wishing that he'd done more in this life, experienced more of the world besides the cruelties. However, right now, he was shocked by the pang of fear in his chest.

For once, he had something to look forward to. For once, he had unfinished business. 

Dream.

George's heart pounded as he thought fast, before reaching on his hip and whipping out his gun. It wasn't a good idea. It was risky, throwing all stealth out the window and practically inviting unwanted attention to the murder scene. But what other choice did he have?

He aimed the gun at her head, and the final thing he heard before the shot was a sharp gasp. George watched her eyes go dull, and she fell limply off of him and onto the ground. George panted, staring at the small trickle of smoke coming from the tip of the gun. He knew he didn't have much time, he already heard shouts and screams from outside. He tucked the gun back against his hip, scrambling to his feet, before sprinting up the stairs and climbing out the window and onto the roof from which he came. He used the rooftops as his getaway, before dropping down into an alley blocks away and slowly walking, trying to think.

He pulled his hand away from his arm, looking down at the crimson blood that shined under the dim lights. That wasn't ideal.

He kept his head down, thinking quickly about to do. If he was seen this close to the crime scene, bloodied and wounded with weaponry... well, that wouldn't go well. Before he exited the alley, he tossed his gun and weaponry behind a trash can to come back to later.

And then, he stumbled out of the alley, grabbing the first stranger he saw and using his acting skills to his advantage. 

"Sir! Sir, please, there's a deranged man on the loose, he tried to kill me! Please, you--"

George stared up at the alarmed stranger that met his gaze. The very familiar stranger.

"George?"

"Dream!" George knew he couldn't drop the act, other people were staring. "Dream, thank god it's you, I thought I was going to die!" At first, he wasn't sure why the tears sprang to his eyes. "I thought I'd never get to see you again--" When had this acting turned to genuine emotion? He clung to Dream, beginning to sob helplessly into his chest. "I thought I'd never be able to see the finished portrait, I thought-- I thought--"

"Hey, hey," Dream didn't even pay attention to the growing crowd, holding him close and slowly lowering to his knees as he held George. Finally, he lifted his head to address the crowd. "Someone call an ambulance!" He instructed, before looking back down at the sobbing boy in his arms. "Georgie, Georgie, it's alright... breathe, baby. Breathe."

-

The week that he was in the hospital sped by. Dream came to visit him every day, and George came up with the shitty cover story that he was beat up in that alley. Of course, that wasn't exactly the case, but it wasn't like Dream needed to know that. Not yet.

Though, George was beginning to weigh his options. He really did need to tell him about the mafia. For his own safety, if nothing else. The more Dream associated with him, the more of a growing, neon target was appearing on his back. Especially in places like the public parks and coffee shops, even if it was late at night. It didn't change that it would still be bad if someone from the opposing gang saw them together.

George was currently walking to the coffee shop, hands stuffed into his pockets as he stared down at the sidewalk. He pushed open the door, and was immediately greeted by a familiar voice. The coffee shop was entirely empty. He hadn't even noticed. 

He lifted his head, looking at Dream, the only person besides the barista that was inside. "Dream? Where is... everyone?"

"Well, I... I sorta rented the place out for an hour," Dream grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I wanted to show you something. Personally and privately."

"You- you rented the whole shop?" George's eyes were wide. "And you did this because?"

"I wanted to show you this."

George's eyes finally registered the blob of green beside him. It was something draped over with a bright green tarp. It was tall, and not very wide. George had a vague idea of what it was. It must be the portrait. "You finally finished it?" He asked, giving him a soft smile.

"I finally did," Dream replied. "Also, I ordered your coffee, it should be ready any--"

"Order for George?"

"--second," Dream finished with a chuckle. "Go get it, and when you're seated and comfortable, I'll show you the portrait."

George nodded, smiling almost giddily like a child on Chirstmas as he approached the counter. He took the coffee, giving her a smile before sitting down at the table in front of Dream, giving him a large smile. He'd felt so heavy as he walked down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets and eyes fixated on every little crack. But it was as if all of that was melting away now. Dream was in front of him, showing off his portrait, and everything might just be okay.

"Well?" George grinned, taking a sip of his coffee. "Let's see it."

Dream gave an excited grin of his own, moving to hold the green tarp between his fingers. He took a deep breath, before yanking it off.

George's eyes widened at the sight before him.

The portrait was huge. He thought it had just been the easel that was making it so tall, but it was a small easel that was holding a very long canvas. It was a full body shot of George, sitting on the picnic bench, gaze cast towards the stars. The starlight fluttered onto his cheeks, and it was a very strikingly accurate image, except...

"Dream," George let out a small laugh. "What did you do?"

"What?" Dream's head turned to face him. "Did I get something wrong?"

"Yeah," George grinned. "You've made me look like some kind of angel. I look so... ethereal, I'm-- you've made me way too pretty," he responded with another few laughs. Dream's expression dropped, and George abruptly stopped laughing. "Wait, I didn't mean to insult your work, what I was saying was it's gorgeous. It's too beautiful to be me."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," Dream told him, taking a sip of his own coffee. "We don't all see things the same way as each other."

"Well-- yeah, but..." George fumbled with his words. "I mean, I know. But that just-- that's not... me, y'know? I'm not pretty like that."

"But I think you are," Dream gave a fond smile. "I think you're the prettiest man I've ever seen."

George's eyes widened, and he hastily looked away to hide his blush. "Dream, stop," he let out a flustered laugh. "That's not-- you can't say that. It's not right."

"Why not?" Dream pressed, taking a tiny step towards him. "I'm drawn to aesthetically beautiful things naturally as an artist. I was drawn to you since the moment we met. George, you're like a sunset on the beach. You're as beautiful as the galaxy, and all the stars in the sky. You remind me of a candle, a single flame flickering in the darkness. You possess the same beauty of anything else in this world. That's why I had to paint you."

George glanced up at him, dumbfounded. "...Dream..."

This wasn't good. If Dream was getting attached, that was like signing his own death warrant. He parted his lips to speak, before Dream shushed him. "That is to say, George, I'm drawn to you for much more than your aesthetic beauty alone. I look into your eyes, and I see a gentle soul. A lost soul. Someone that's been through so much unspoken pain that it bleeds into his every day turmoil. There is beauty in pain, George, if you choose to see it."

"There is no beauty in my pain," George seethed. "There's no beauty in the shit that happened to me."

"I didn't say there was beauty in the events that caused the pain. There isn't, there rarely is," Dream took another step forward, and it wasn't until he sat down in the creaky coffee shop chair that George realized how close he was. "But there is something to be said about those who go through unsurpassed amounts of pain, and rise from it a new, changed man. There is a type of beauty in learning how to be rebirthed anew from the ashes of who you used to be."

"Ashes," George echoed, letting out a bitter laugh. "You have no idea what comes from fire. It's a relentless force that takes everything you love and mocks you by leaving behind the ashes. There's nothing beautiful about ashes."

"George..." Dream reached out to take his hand, while his other one cupped his cheek. It wasn't until Dream's thumb caressed his cheekbone that he felt the wet smear and realized he'd been crying. He instinctively went to pull back in shame, but Dream held him gently close. "George. What I'm trying to say is, you are beautiful. Regardless of pain or hardship. I'd love to get to know you more."

George stared at him, breathing shaky as he continued to allow hot tears to leak down his cheeks. "Dream..." He whispered the name, so quietly that the tiniest draft might sweep it away forever. "Dream, knowing me might just kill you."


	4. achilles heel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know who you are," James pressed, grin never leaving his face. "George Davidson. Mafia recruit at age six. A born and raised child soldier.”
> 
> The breath left George’s lungs, and his eyes shot wide. He felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. For years, he’d relished in his privacy. His solitude. His lie. Now, he was being torn apart, by… this stranger. And for what?
> 
> “You don’t know shit, old man,” George hissed, hand trembling. “You’re a coward. You’re scared of death.”
> 
> “And you aren’t?”
> 
> George winced, like the words slapped him. 
> 
> “You don’t know me half as well as you think you do, James,” George flipped the dagger in his fingers, the small show of skill forcing him to reign his confidence back in. “I know you were an old friend of the family’s, but now you’re just someone else I have to wash off of my hands and down the drain.”
> 
> “Don’t you remember me?”

The next kill was out of rage. There was no over analyzation, no plan of stealth, it was just to get in, kill, get out. So what if he made a scene? He needed to get this anger out somewhere. He didn't hesitate, kicking the front door's handle and hearing it groan. He grit his teeth, seeing the door still standing in his way. He took a deep breath, kicking the door as hard as he could and it finally opened. He barged through the door, slamming it shut behind him. He heard frantic footsteps from upstairs, and he grinned to himself. He knew that this person knew what was coming. Knew that they'd wronged the mafia. Knew their demise was imminent.

He marched up the stairs, gripping his dagger in hand. "James," he breathed, "I know you know why I'm here."

"Get back!" The man hissed, cornered in his own bedroom. George stood in front of the doorway, closing it behind him and bashing the knob to the side. He knew the door wouldn't open now. James knew it too. The only way out was through the apartment window; a ten story drop, unless you wanted to try the rickety fire escape. 

Either way. One wrong move, and it’s over.

"You shouldn't have fucked with the family," George seethed, taking strides forward. He flipped the dagger between skilled fingers, gaze hardened and dangerously aflame. "Karma's come to steal your last breath."

"You're just a boy," James grinned toothily, despite being cornered. It was a phenomenon George had seen a thousand times before. Fight or flight. James was a cornered, wounded animal, and he knew just as well as George did that there was no way out, unless George decided not to kill him. James figured if he exploited George's weaknesses, he'd crack under pressure.

Sometimes, it worked, George will admit.

But today it only added fuel to flame. 

George gripped the dagger tighter. "This  _ boy _ is about to be the last face you ever see. I suggest you say any last words or prayers, Mr. Bivanochi. Make it quick. You’re testing my patience.”

"What a poor, young life, wasted to be enslaved to the mafia... I know you, George."

George faltered.

"I know who you are," James pressed, grin never leaving his face. "George Davidson. Mafia recruit at age six. A born and raised child soldier.”

The breath left George’s lungs, and his eyes shot wide. He felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. For years, he’d relished in his privacy. His solitude. His lie. Now, he was being torn apart, by… this stranger. And for what?

“You don’t know shit, old man,” George hissed, hand trembling. “You’re a coward. You’re scared of death.”

“And you aren’t?”

George winced, like the words slapped him. 

“You don’t know me half as well as you think you do, James,” George flipped the dagger in his fingers, the small show of skill forcing him to reign his confidence back in. “I know you were an old friend of the family’s, but now you’re just someone else I have to wash off of my hands and down the drain.”

“Don’t you remember me?”

George took a deep breath, “I’m not gonna listen to you--”

“Georgie. Poor Georgie… you were always second best, weren’t you? Second place? The runner-up? Above average, but always one step away from the top?” James let out a laugh, the stench of tobacco laced his breath and filled the air. “Pathetic.”

George took a step closer, and James knew his time was running out. George lifted his hand into the air, as James croaked out his final words:

“You were nothing but a malleable ball of clay. And look where that got you.”

George’s arm slashed down, and James’ throat was slit.

It was over.

George didn’t even bother being respectful about the body, didn’t push it into a sitting position, didn’t close the eyes. He didn’t even mutter a word. He shot a dangerous glare at the blood-oozed corpse, not caring about being careful as he  _ threw _ himself down the fire escape.

* * *

  
  


The world felt a little blurry as George hauled himself to the coffee shop with a slight limp. Perhaps throwing himself like a ragdoll down a rusty and precarious fire escape wasn’t the best idea, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. His mind was spinning. James knew more than he thought, and if James knew more than he thought, then… who else knew? Was his life being displayed somewhere?

Someone was keeping tabs on him. But who?

“Hey!”

George jumped, whirling around with his hand instinctively flying to his hip. Dream blinked, giggling and raising his hands in defense. “George, it’s me. Relax. You’re safe.”

George’s shoulders slumped down with a sigh, and he gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Dream. A bit on edge.”

“It’s okay,” Dream took a few steps forward again. “Coffee and a muffin?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” George grinned, beginning to walk. 

Dream looped an arm around his shoulders as he walked beside him with a light chuckle.

“Because I know you, George.”

* * *

  
  


“What do you mean you threw up on your sister?” George cringed, “that’s fuckin’ gross.”

“Well it wasn’t exactly on purpose!” Dream laughed, taking a sip of his tea, “I told her to get off of me.”

It was then that George caught it; the crusted paint on his hands. “Were you working again?” George asked, tearing a piece off his muffin and eating it. Biting into things felt weird, so he had a tendency to rip things before eating them.

“Working?”

“Painting, I guess,” George mused, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Oh,” Dream seemed to relax a bit. “Yeah, I was painting earlier. What, do you want another portrait?”

“No,” George laughed, cheeks flushing a bit. “I still don’t think you should have painted me as an angel in the first place.”

“Why not? You seem like one, to me,” Dream mused, reaching across the table and taking hold of George’s hand.

The gesture made him freeze. How long had it been since he’d had contact like this? He slowly relaxed his shoulders again, smile turning soft at the corners. “I’m… far from it. We-- need to talk, Dream. I was gonna write you this letter that way I wouldn’t have to, it’d be so much easier that way--”

“Hey…” Dream’s expression was caring as he gave a small smile of his own, “we can talk. Grab your coffee, let’s go to the park.”

“But the stars aren’t out yet,” George gasped as he was pulled to his feet and swept in close to Dream, feeling the breath stolen from his lungs. He gazed up at the taller male, noting the paint had splattered onto his face somehow, as well. He noted to ask about it later. 

“Then I guess you’ll have to look at  _ me _ , and  _ my face, _ won’t you?” Dream’s smile was charming, and it made George want to giggle, want to blush, want to be spun in his arms.

What was happening to him?

* * *

  
  


“So tell me everything,” Dream sat on the bench, looking over at him. “Clearly you have… a lot you need to explain for.”

“Right. Um…” 

_ “I know you, George.” _

George took a shuddering breath, “I uh, work for the mafia.”

There was a surprised hum from behind a tea cup, sourced by the man next to him.

“Specifically, I’m a mafia hitman.”

Another hum.

“That means I kill people.”

“I know what a hitman is, George.”

“Right, right.”

George took another deep breath.

“I’m a murderer. I, um… was taken by the mafia at a really young age… my family--...” George took a shuddering breath, staring down at the grass.

“Take your time.”

His voice, it was like home. It was calming, soothing, made him ground himself in the here and now. “My family was killed in a house-fire when I was six years old.”

Dream’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“All dead and gone, burned to a crisp. That’s why I smoke. The burning makes me feel closer to them, in some fucked up way.”

Dream swallowed, lowering his gaze to the grass. He began to pick at his cuticles. “How big was your family?”

“My entire family? I had a little brother and a little sister, an older brother, two parents, and a cat--”

“You had a cat? I had a cat.”

“Had?” George looked up at him. “What happened?”

“Well, she died. Her name was Patches.”

What was that look in his eye? Dream looked mystical, whimsical, like he was thinking back to a better time. George knew pets could be important, but it looked like a deeper attachment than that.

“I’m sorry,” George breathed. 

“It happens. Sorry to interrupt, go on,” Dream said gently.

George nodded, looking back down. “They all died. I was the only one to make it out. When the smoke cleared--literally--and I emerged from the wreckage, I was… surrounded by men in suits and masks. Gunned, armed men. They threatened to kill me, until one spoke up.”

“What was his name?”

“Philza,” George toyed with the ends of his sleeves. “Phil took me in. He raised me. And by raised me, I mean he made me a child soldier. I showed any hesitation, and he’d throw me into a tiny room under the stairs for a week. I had to do as he said. He conditioned me. He made me a ruthless killer by the age of 11.”

Dream was eerily silent, and George assumed he was just taking it all in. What is there to say about something this cruel?

“I became the best of the best. All except for one.”

Dream’s head kept glancing around as he listened, fiddling with his sleeves, bouncing his leg. George could tell he was making him uncomfortable. “Sorry, I can--”

“Keep going.”

“Uh, okay, so… there was always this one kid that was younger than me, but better than me. Only by two years, but he was always just one step ahead. Smart little nine year old. Cunning, clever, and… scarily _sadistic_ \--”

_ “Duck!” _

George’s head snapped to him. “What?--”

George gasped as he was pushed to the grass, right as a gunshot fired.


	5. imperceivable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks. Memories. Bittersweet reminders of what used to be, and even more bittersweet reminders of what is now.

When it had first happened, he thought he’d never get rid of the little dots on his eyes that would appear and then fade whenever he moved his eyes. It was the same effect of staring into the sun for too long, only it hadn’t been the sun he’d been staring into. Something hotter, something real, something… destructive. 

Something that robbed everything from him. 

For a child, it was a game, at first. Something to do, something to keep himself entertained in the pitch blackness of the van’s backseat. He’d flick his eyes, watching the green outlines appear, and then begin to fade, only to reappear again when he moved his line of sight. It had only became a game, though, after thirty minutes of panic, thinking that his eyeballs were on fire.

Fire.

He remembered rubbing at his eyes, tearing up, sobbing and panicking mindlessly, thinking that he, too, was on fire. Thinking that he was going to go still, go lifeless, just like the rest of his family had. Watching his baby sister’s convulsing body and ear-piercing screams die down into… nothing at all. He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. He just wanted her to move again, to scream, to do something. 

But she was lifeless, and still as death.

The back of the van was cold, at least. At least it wasn’t hot, or full of soot, or reeking of smoke. At least the air he breathed here didn’t make his lungs ache and burn. At least he’d finally stopped coughing. 

When the smoke cleared, he’d been surrounded. Tall men in masks with guns at their hips, and even bigger guns resting against their shoulders, red dots trained on his body like bugs. He swatted at them, began to panic, only stopping when one threatened to kill him. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. But he knew that if it was what happened to his family, he didn’t want it. 

He’d stood still, ignoring the way the red dots on his skin felt like fire ants crawling and squirming under his skin. One man slowly walked forward, He had gingery-blonde hair, and cold eyes. He slowly got down on one knee, and he stared him in the face. “How old are you?”

“Five,” the boy had spoken, slowly raising a hand that had five digits shakily extended. “But… I’m turning six next week,” he said, raising his other hand to hold up an extra finger. 

The knelt man before him let out another chuckle, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your daddy’s dead. Do you know that?”

“What does that mean?” He asked, voice trembling. “Is daddy okay?”

“Did you have a mommy?” The blonde pressed, clearly not having the time or patience for his questions.

“Yeah, she was inside, w-with daddy,” the child stammered.

“And your siblings? Did you have any?”

“Yeah… s-she stopped moving…”

“Pets?”

“A kitty.”

“Where is she?”

“Inside…”

“Hm.”

“What’s your name…?” 

“Philza,” the man stood up, leaving the child’s neck to crane up to keep staring at him. The only person that he’d spoken to since the cries of his family stopped ringing in his ears. He hadn’t realized there had been tears dripping down his cheeks until Phil barked, “stop crying. Take him to the car.”

And now, here he sat, shaking and alone. He’d been here for what felt like years, even though in reality it hadn’t even been an hour. He’d made friends with the spider in the corner of the car, and he’d named him David. David was small and if you weren’t looking for him, you wouldn’t see him. Perhaps that’s why no one else saw him. He made himself imperceivable. The child, alone in the corner of the car with his knees tucked to his chest, wished that he could do that, too. 

Sometimes, David felt like his only friend. It was easy to forget that there were people around him, when the entire car had been silent. 

The silence was thick, and he didn’t like it. But it was better than the screams, and the yelling. He reminded himself he wasn’t there with a deep breath, noting the way he didn’t choke as he exhaled. He wasn’t there anymore. There was no more fire. He could breathe. 

But that meant, in turn, that he’d left his family behind. No burning meant no more family. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant just yet. 

The car finally stopped, and the hum and rumble finally stopped. His head lifted, and he looked around. The windows were tinted black, he still couldn’t see. A car door opened and slammed shut, and he gasped as David fell from his perch, dangling from a single web. The child’s heart ached, he reached out a steady hand--

The door opened, and David fell to the seat. The child lay his hand down, trying to coax his friend to take refuge in the safety of his hand, but before he could, a heavy box was dropped onto the seat, crushing David where he crawled. 

The child screamed.

-

A year came and it passed, and that child had turned into a slightly older child. More mature. One who understood the concepts of life and death, one who understood what it meant when the screaming stopped, and the blanket of silence fell. One who understood what he was in, as much as his child brain could. What he knew was the concept of death was something real, that he had fallen prey to quicker than he should’ve. 

A new kid had shown up. One that was a lot like him in ways he wasn’t sure he was ready to face. He was beginning to see a pattern. Phil liked him, too. At first that’d made him jealous, but now? He was glad. Phil’s attention was mainly turned to the other, older boy, and it gave him a bit of time to breathe, and research himself.

It’s a funny thing, childhood; while other kids were obsessed with getting good grades, he was obsessed with planting the bullet in the perfect crevice of the skull that would make it shoot out the other end cleanly. Killing was one thing, why not have it done in style?

He was already the best, so why not strive to be perfect?

“Philza?” The child had asked one day, shuffling into his room. “I have a question, sir.”

“Yes?” The blonde asked, shuffling through pages on his desk.

“Why don’t I get a name?”

Phil blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The other boy,” the child pressed, “you call him George. He has a name to you. Why am I just… Zero? Why am I a number?”

“Because your name is dangerous. You’re the best of the best, you’re all we have, you’re the strongest amongst us. Slipping up and telling you your name would put a target on your back,” Phil explained, “George is expendable. You are not.”

“But, sir, I’ve seen George in action… he’s really good,” Zero pressed. “I--”

“Tell me, Zero. Would you win or a fight, or would you let him?” Philza turned to him, cold green eyes staring down at him. It made Zero shudder.

“...I would, sir, but that doesn’t mean--”

“Are you better than him?”

Zero swallowed.

“Zero. Are you better than him? Or do you mean to tell me that that tiny little boy could pin you down, and make you scream for your life? Are you admitting to me that he’s better than you? Is that what this is?” Philza strode forward, grabbing the child’s chin painfully and forcing him to stare into his eyes. “Because I can let you two fight it out, and I will let him kill you for sport, if that’s what you think. If you think he’s better than you, then we have no use for you.”

“No, sir,” Zero whispered, voice shivering. “Sir, all I want is… a name. I don’t want to be an object anymore. I want to be more than a weapon.”

“More than a weapon?” Phil scoffed, letting go of his jaw and staring down at him with daggers for eyes. “Tell me,  _ Zero _ . What do you want to be?”

“I just want to be a boy,” Zero spoke timidly. “I want to be a kid. I want to have interests. I want to know who I am.”

Phil laughed. “Keep dreaming.”

So he did.

-

Another year passes, and George is getting better, Zero can tell. He watches him, he even duels him once when he asks. Zero wins. It doesn’t feel good.

That year was the year that Zero was offered a job.

“You want to be a regular kid, don’t you?” Phil asked, staring at the boy who squirmed uncomfortably in the chair he was sat on. He’d had a growing hatred for those green eyes of Phil’s; looked too much like his own. He saw too much of himself in Phil.

Or was it the other way around?

“Yes, sir.”

“You get your wish, then. You’ll begin to practice art. You’ll be allowed to go to school, you’ll be allowed to leave as you wish.”

“Does this mean--”

“You get a name,” Phil finished, staring at him as Zero’s eyes grew wide, a desperate smile spreading across his face. 

“Do I get to--”

“You’ll get to pick,” Phil finished again, and Zero let out a small squeal. “Quiet.”

Zero bit his lip, unable to hold back his smile. All he’d ever wanted, the only thing he’d ever wanted more than to survive… since the day he’d been recruited, all he’d had was a simple…

“Dream.”

Phil raised an eyebrow, “Dream?”

“That’s my name,” Zero grinned confidently. “I am Dream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope this threw u for a bit of a loop ;)
> 
> reminder that u can find me on twitter! @mitikune_
> 
> hope to see u there :D


	6. chained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexual tension, but with guns.

The gunshot rang through his ears and seemed to bounce around his skull. He took frantic, shallow breaths as he frantically looked around. His brain was completely empty with any thoughts, he didn’t know what to do. Being a mafia hitman, you’d think he’d be used to gunshots. 

It was one of those things you never quite get used to.

For the first time he could remember, time seemed to be standing still, waiting for him to make a decision. Time was waiting on  _ him _ . So, he did the only thing he could think of.

“Dream?!”

“Right here,” came a voice from beside him. He grabbed George’s hand, all but dragging the smaller boy to his feet. Dream was strong; it was something he wouldn’t have expected from the other. Dream was tall, but he looked more lanky, like he was built for agility rather than strength. “We need to get out of here.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

George felt like a deer in the headlights, heart hammering in his chest as he began to be dragged after Dream. Well, it seemed he was a man of many strengths then, as he was faster than George, too. 

Better than George.

Always just one step ahead.

Why did that feel so familiar?

George didn’t have time to think it through anymore, Dream pushing him behind a tree and then diving for cover himself as another shot rang out, along with yelling. 

“Is that?!--”

“It is! He’s straying from the mission! Apprehend him, go, go, go!”

“What’s going on?!” George shrieked, eyes wide with fear.

Dream peered around the small wall he’d found, glaring at the opposing men who, moments ago, had been disguised as just bystanders--they now wielded guns. “Not now!” He hissed to George, “we need to get out of here first!”

“What happened? Who are these guys? Tell me, I can help! I’m a hitman, I can--”

“So am I!” Dream barked back at him, eyes serious. Dream’s charm, to George, had been the way he seemed so carefree all the time. The way he brushed off serious situations, this sort of confidence George had always lacked. He was cocky, but it wasn’t an out of place cockiness. It was the way he carried himself, cocky with a confidence and skill set to back it. 

That seemed to be gone, now. Dream looked like a cornered animal. He looked scared, in the only way, George imagined, Dream could express it. Dream wasn’t good with emotions, that much George could gather. He always seemed to be putting up a front. Like, for example, when George had told him that he was a part of the mafia. He hadn’t been surprised, at least outwardly. George understood the need to reel in emotions.

But because of that, it meant George could see through it.

Dream was scared. The anger, the take-charge attitude, he was scared that something was going to go wrong. But it was a fear George knew all too well; he wasn’t afraid of something happening to him. He was afraid of something happening to someone else.

To George.

George wrapped his head around the realization, and decided to try to ease the fear. “Dream, I’m okay,” he called through the sound of another gunshot. He watched a chunk of bark fly off the tree, and his breath hitched. They were both running out of time in their current positions. The men were coordinating, regrouping, and spreading out; and Dream and George were both weaponless, as far as he was aware.

Dream didn’t respond to his weak reassurance, instead, diving to the tree George was at. He pressed his body firmly against George, the smaller blushing slightly as his chin was lodged into his chest, causing his gaze to lift and lock with Dream’s face. 

Dream’s expression was focused and stern, eyebrows knit and lips turned to a taut line. His eyes were constantly scanning and surveying his environment, keeping tabs on everything around them. All of the sudden, he grabbed George by the shoulders and shoved him down against the grass, right as another, louder gunshot rang out, and the sound of a bullet getting lodged in a tree hit their ears. 

As it was currently, Dream was sitting on George’s hips, still scanning the environment. George should be doing the same, he should be focused on getting them both out of this situation alive, but the only thing he can look at is the way a chain has fallen out of Dream’s shirt, dangling tantalizingly in front of him. On the end, it has a single letter, in a neat and polished pink stone.

“A”.

George opened his mouth to speak, but Dream suddenly leaped off of him and hoisted the boy to his feet again. “Run, George!” He snapped, grabbing his arm and dragging him along behind him again. He was running straight forward, and George’s head was a blur. This was what he trained for; these high pressure situations were what he faced on a daily basis. But right now, all he could think about was--

“Dream!”

George cried out the name as as man hopped a fence nearby, sprinting straight towards them. George’s hands fumbled at his belt, but for once, no weapon resided. It must’ve fallen somewhere. Which was great; he basically just gave the opposing side a weapon. 

“Just go!” Dream snapped, punching the man in the face to at least buy a fraction of time, “jump the fence and run straight for the alley, I’ll meet up with you on the other end!”

“I’m not going to leave you!”

More men began jumping the fences. If something didn’t change right now, they’d be surrounded, with no way out.

“George!” Dream poured all of the desperation into his voice as he screamed, “fucking run!”

George took a few steps towards the fence, biting his lip harshly. Fuck, fuck, fuck-- The choice was made for him, however, when he felt arms wrap around him and tug him into a pair of arms. “What?! Let go of me--”

“It’s me!” Dream leaned back to kick the man in front of him off of the fence, before tossing George over and jumping himself. “If you won’t go, then we’ll both go!”

George nodded his head, beginning to run again before yelping as, again, two arms swept under him and he was held in a pair of strong arms. George’s head swiveled towards the source, seeing that, once again, determined and fierce look in Dream’s eyes. He began sprinting, looking down at George with a wide and teasing grin, even now. 

“You were going too slow.”

George let out a laugh. It was the thing he cherished most about Dream, he’s realizing; the way he can turn everything humorous. Even when it feels like all is lost, Dream is always there, and he’s always got a smile, and he’s always making  _ him _ smile. He says this as if he’s known Dream forever.

It feels like he has. 

“Where are we going?” George called over his shoulder.

“Home,” Dream called back, ducking into winding alleys to lose the men that seemed to be all over. Some shot from above, some shot from the sides, from behind--but never in front.

It was almost like the route was… planned.

George squirmed in his arms. “You can let me go, you’re slowing yourself down by carrying me everywhere!”

“It’s fine,” he hissed, “just relax. Let me carry you.”

He relaxed. 

* * *

It felt like they were on the run forever. Finally, when Dream started panting and wheezing out breaths and his legs began to become less sure of their steps, George forced himself to push Dream away from him and ran alongside him. He’d offered to carry Dream, but the taller had refused, refused, refused, so finally, they settled for walking hastily alongside each other. 

The gunshots had finally stopped, and they were both out of breath by the time they toppled into the dingy apartment. 

Finally, they were safe.

George allowed the two of them to catch their breath, before it fell into a labored, thick silence. Finally, he spoke.

“We need to talk, Dream.”

“I know.”


	7. malleable

“You’re a hitman?” George blabbered, astounded, “you say that so casually, like it means nothing--”

“It doesn’t, to me,” Dream admitted, gaze cast to the floor as he tugged at the ends of his sleeves, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“It doesn’t mean anything to you?” George blanched, eyes wide. “Dream--you’re a murderer!”

“And you’re not?” Dream countered, looking up at him now. There’s that defensive look again, that looks that means he’s cornered. Knowing there’s no way out. The look he’s only seen for the first time today, but he hates it.

“I am, but at least I can accept that it’s bad. I don’t like killing people--”

“Who said I did?” Dream huffed, “you were recruited, right? Forced into the mafia? Forced to learn to murder from a young age? Why would you think that it was any different for me?”

“Because my childhood was out of a fucked-up movie,” George began to pace the floor, eyes wide. “Something like that just can’t happen twice.”

“George.”

The boy stopped his pacing, and he turned his head towards Dream. Dream was beginning to unbutton his shirt. 

George’s face flushed red. “Dream, not now, this isn’t the time for--”

“Look, George.”

George’s head slowly turned towards Dream, who was sitting up in his chair, shirt opened and swept to each side. Up his body were crawling, harsh lines. Lines that were eerily familiar. George stumbled backwards, forgetting how to breathe.

All at once, the burning was back. The way the ashes clogged his throat, the way each breath in hurt more than the last. Coughing, air feeling less like an essential need to survival and more like poison; the very thing killing him. All at once, he was a little boy, back, standing in the rubble and the smell of burning flesh that surrounded him. He forgot how to think. He forgot everything. 

Everything, in that moment, changed.

“You… burned,” were the only words George could get out, feeling his vision begin to cloud with a primal panic. 

“I was burned,” Dream said, voice low, “and so was my family. When I emerged from the smoke…”

“...he was there,” George filled in for him, voice sounding less of a voice, and more of a whimper that could be dismissed of that of a whimpering dog. “They all were, and they…”

“They took me,” Dream helped, sincerity creeping into his tone as he slowly stood up from his place against the chair, to move and walk over towards George. “They put me…”

“...in the back of a van,” George murmured, letting out a sob when Dream’s head slowly nodded. He hadn’t even realized he’d been crying. 

Dream was closer now, close enough to touch him. “They brought me back to the mafia. Phil was in charge of me, he wanted me to become--”

“A ruthless child soldier,” George spoke the words, and with another sad, affirmative nod, George’s knees gave out.

Dream caught him in his arms, lowering them both to the floor as George began to sob and heave into his chest. With every sharp, sudden breath, it sent George gagging and choking, as if he was inhaling smoke all over again. Dream said nothing more, holding him in his arms and letting the elder man break down. After a moment, he began gently rubbing George’s back in a soft, soothing motion. 

“And then what?” The broken man choked out, using all of his strength to lift his head to stare at Dream, body shaking and chattering like a leaf in the wind. He truly did feel like a child. “What did he do to you?”

“He made me the best,” Dream spoke softly, “but I was never his favorite. I talked back to him, I never just gave in. It meant that I got my ass handed to me a few times, but… physical pain meant nothing to me, versus the pain of being trapped in that concrete box, no access to the outside world… I couldn’t take it,” he whispered, eyes glassing over. “Phil knew the only thing I wanted. He knew all I wanted was to leave. He knew of my strong will, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to break me--at least, not in a quick enough fashion for what he wanted…”

George’s body was beginning to stop its shaking, and he continued to stare up, scanning Dream’s face for any signs of disingenuity. 

There wasn’t any at all.

George choked on another sob, his head falling onto Dream’s chest as the other man continued to speak.

“...so he let me out,” Dream said with a melancholy sigh. “He let me into the world, he let me go to school, he gave me a name and a mission. Every day, to keep his sense of control on me, he’d tell me something small to do. When I did that, he’d give me another. He knew that having a trained child soldier on the outside was useful in other ways...he taught me, um…” Dream swallowed, and the sudden shift from sadness to anxiety made George lift his head again, tears still streaking his face.

“He taught me how to manipulate,” Dream said carefully. “He taught me how to turn the human brain into a malleable ball of clay, and then crush it, let it ooze between my fingers. He taught me how to wrap anyone around my finger. How to be my friend, to be my enemy, to have the general public think highly of me, to get what I wanted, and he…” Dream’s head turned to the side, ”he taught me how to make someone fall in love with me.”

The sentence hit like a ton of bricks. 

“Fall… fall in love…” George was a broken record, stammering out words, blabbering and struggling to piece together the words that were being spoken to him. “So what you’re saying is… things between us…?”

“What things between us?” Dream asked softly, delicately, knowing that the question, if said bluntly, had more impact than a bullet wound. 

“Everything! You can’t deny the things that we have together,” George stammered, “the coffee, the stars, t-the connections we have, the things you did for me--”

“Let me explain,” Dream shushed, tugging George back into an embrace.

In the quiet, and with the close proximity, George could feel his heart hammering. He knew whatever Dream was about to say, was going to change everything, one way or another. 

He braced himself.

“We’re in the same group of mafia,” Dream said, “you know that, now. Do you… remember me at all? Do you remember me now?”

George blinked the tears out of his eyes, taking a few deep breaths to clear his mind, as he began to think. He thought over everything Dream had said. “We grew up together?”

“Kind of. You hated me, actually,” Dream let out a bitter laugh. 

Then it hit him.

“You’re… you’re Zero. You’re the winged kid.”

Dream blinked, glancing down at him. “The what?”

“Winged kid,” George repeated. “After you left, Phil told us that you ‘got away’. The other kids and I started calling you the winged kid,” he explained, “because you flew away. You escaped. You were free.”

“Well--” Dream let out a dry chuckle, “I was far from free. But I guess, in a sense…” Dream sighed, before continuing to speak. “But, yes. I was Zero. I did get away, in a technical sense of the words.”

“So what… what happened, when you left? You went to school, Phil gave you missions, taught you how to… manipulate people. Taught you how to get people to fall in love with you… what does that have to do with us, right now?”

“Well. When we met, I was charmed by you. You looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Phil made me do extremely detailed daily reports about all that happened, and I told him that I met you, I described you, told him your name… and then he told me who you really were. It was just another way to keep tabs on you. Phil wanted to know what you did on your time outside of mafia business, so…”

“So all of the… all of the consideration,” George began slowly, “all of the… the sweet things, the… the figuring out what time I’d be at the coffee shop, figuring out that I went to the park afterwards, you followed me, let me vent, let me speak about everything, just so that…”

“...I could report to Phil,” Dream finished, voice weak. “That’s correct.”

“So you never… you didn’t do it because…”

“I didn’t do it out of care or consideration,” Dream swallowed, “I had to.”

The words sat in the air, like balls of lead. George analyzed his current position, and it only made him feel more sick. Here he was, laying in Dream’s arms; the man that he’d been slowly learning how to fall in love with, only for him to tell him that that was exactly what was meant to happen. George’s feelings were manipulated into existence. Right? They weren’t real. 

So what was? None of this was real. What could he trust?

He began spiraling, breathing beginning to quicken again.

“George, please, can I explain--”

“I don’t want to hear anything from you!” George seethed, shoving the taller man away and trying to get to his feet, only to fall over again. “I don’t want to hear a single thing that you have to say!--”

“George, I am in love with you.”

Well that’s not quite what he expected.

George’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at the man before him like he’d grown wings and flown away. “What?”

“Just let me finish.”

George slowly eased back down, but he was still tense. Guarded. There was a wall between them now, Dream was heavily aware, and his next words had to be absolutely perfect. 

Thankfully, talking and making people feel things was something that he was far too acquainted with.

“Phil wanted to see what you would do, if I began to make you care for me. If given an option between loyalty to the mafia, or to… love, he wanted to see where you truly stood. So, when he learned that everything between us went as well as it did, he told me to keep doing it. So I did. I painted you, I gave you little hints, I became a…” He laughed, “a sexy, man of mystery. Phil said you’d like that. He said you read books like that when you were a kid.”

George’s face flushed, and he felt like Dream had sliced him open and sorted through his insides, as if he were a fictional character. It was strange; even he felt like, sometimes, he didn’t know himself as well as the man sitting in front of him seemed to.

“So… so you forced me to love you,” George said, again, weakly.

“I did, at first,” Dream admitted. “I wasn’t happy about it, but… I was just trying to do my job. You know how Phil is; if I didn’t do as he asked, he’d force me back into that hellhole. I can’t survive like that.”

George swallowed, his eyes slowly trailing to the ground. “...yeah, I mean, I get it… I know I have no right to… be angry at you.”

“You do,” Dream laughed, “you have every right to be very, very angry at me. I’m angry at me, too.”

“Why?” George’s voice whispered, “you shouldn’t be. You were trying to survive. You didn’t do this. He did.”

“Well, yeah, but… quickly, things started to change. We had so much in common, Phil told me you wrote me letters,” Dream’s careful smile had turned into a the ghost of a teasing smirk that, now that George looked at it properly, did seem very familiar to that playful little blonde kid he’d come to hate so much over a decade ago. 

“I started to care for you,” Dream slowly said. “Things became more genuine. I painted you as an angel, at first, because…”

“Because?” George pressed, after a few long minutes of silence.

And still, Dream remained quiet. 

It felt like an eternity before Dream spoke again. He took a few breaths, trying to calm himself, and it was clear that he was trying to form the perfect phrase. Trying to word this in the way that would hurt the least, in the way that wouldn’t make the frail man in front of him run away. But from the resigned look in his eyes when he finally met George’s, he knew that he had concluded there was no good way to do it.

“I painted you as an angel, because I was going to kill you, George.”


	8. plastic promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much needed closure.

The words felt like Dream had followed through with what he’d just said. Dream was… going to kill him.

“Why?” Was the only word that George could think to say. “Why were you… why…? Why-- why did you… was all of this…”

Dream shushed him gently again, before continuing to speak. “Phil saw where your loyalty was, within the contents of those unsent letters. When given a choice between the mafia’s confidentiality, and love, you chose love. You chose the love you thought you had of a man you had met only a week or so prior.”

George felt himself shrivel up at his words, at his loyalty being questioned. “Would you prefer I had not chosen you?” George laughed, glancing down. “...and how did Phil see those letters?”

“He just went into your room, George. You didn’t even bother to delete it, or even shut your laptop,” Dream’s grin was teasing, but sympathetic. “You should know better than to leave anything behind.”

George glanced down. “...I should’ve thought it through better. Why didn’t I?”

“Um.” It was Dream’s turn to glance away, idly playing with his fingers as he dreaded his next words, “by that time, I was already like… inside your head. You were angry. Right? You were angry, you wished things didn’t have to be this way, you wanted to be with me.”

George fucking hated this. He hated feeling picked apart and ripped open, he hated that Dream was inside his head so much. “How can I be sure that you’re not still manipulating me?”

“You can’t,” Dream confessed, smiling brokenly, “you can never be sure. But I hope that me telling that to you makes it a bit better. I’m trying to be honest, George. Even if the truth isn’t what you want to hear.”

“If you’re honest,” George said, feeling himself become desperate for control back over the situation, “then who’s A?”

“What?” Dream raised an eyebrow, “A?”

“Your necklace. I saw it. It untucked out of your shirt when we were swarmed in the park. I felt like that was a bad time to ask, though,” George laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as he sighed.

“Yeah, maybe not the best idea to bring up an ex-girlfriend,” Dream snorted, “when I’m trying to keep the one I actually love from dying.”

George swallowed. “...ex- _ girlfriend? _ So you’re into women?”

“And men, don’t get your boxers in a twist,” Dream smirked. “But I wasn’t  _ exactly _ in love with her. She was… Phil’s first target like this. How do you think I got so good at it? You weren’t the first,” Dream met his gaze, “but you are the last. I’m not doing this shit again.”

“Back up,” George pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to wrap his head around it all, “this girl, A, is your ex? That you manipulated into loving you? For what? Where is she now? What did Phil want?”

“She was a test,” Dream sighed, “to see if I was capable of it. She loved me, she worshipped the ground I walked on, and then I fucking shot her.”

George felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“I fucking killed her.”

“So-... the necklace, what is that?” George said, voice wobbly. Everything felt like it was falling into place in all the wrong ways. “And, hang on, you made her fall in love with you so you could kill her, and you were going to do the same thing to me?”

“I had to, George, I told you this,” Dream said cautiously. 

“Right, yeah, okay,” George fell back against the wall. “The necklace, then. If she meant nothing to you, if she’s dead, why keep it?”

“Because she’s a reminder,” Dream sighed, a hand moving up to fiddle with the stone dangling on the end of the chain, “I don’t want to forget her. She deserved so much better than this. Someone has to carry on her legacy, somehow, the necklace is… a reminder.”

“So the necklace reminds you… that you killed her? Why would you keep it? That’s a pretty shit reminder, I always try to… forget, in any way I can,” George murmured.

“I don’t want to forget that I was the one that took the life of an eleven-year old, innocent girl, at the age of twelve, George. No child deserves to die, just like no child should have to kill. I don’t want her memory to die out. She gave this necklace to me, and I wear it every day to remind myself that she isn’t here anymore. That someone has to live on for her. The necklace is a reminder of… I guess it’s turned into a reminder of love, and tragedy. That beautiful things flourish in tragedy. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but…”

“I get it, I think. So she reminds you of the principle of love?” George tilted his head.

“The necklace does. She doesn't, exactly,” Dream chuckled, “the girl I murdered in the name of love doesn’t exactly keep my hopes high. But… that was kind of the point. It was a reminder not to fall in love, too--and then… you came along.”

“Are you fucking with me, Dream?” George asked, and Dream watched George’s walls slide back up. It hurt. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No,” Dream said, and the words burned his throat. “I’m not lying to you. I don’t think I could bring myself to lie again.”

“Right…” George sighed, “I… will try to believe you.”

“Thank you,” Dream said, and it was quiet again. What felt like ten years later, finally, Dream spoke again. “...I can show you, if you want, the things you make me feel.”

“How?” George asked, and then the words died on his tongue as Dream began crawling over to him. He moved between George’s legs, guiding the older boy’s legs around his waist as Dream tilted up his chin.

“How about this? Can I kiss you?”

George nodded slowly, and Dream’s lips  _ finally _ pressed against the other’s. George was soft, and gentle, and Dream felt hungry and needy. Dream’s hands wandered towards his hips, tugging him flush with his body as he tilted his head, a gentle nip at George’s bottom lip encouraging him to part them so Dream could deepen the kiss. 

George’s hands wandered Dream’s body. He realized he never really got the opportunity to touch him, not like this. He could feel his muscles, practically feel the years of training; he could feel the strength practically coursing through his every vein. It made George want to whimper in submission, throw himself at Dream’s feet and let him ravish him. 

How quickly the mood shifted.

Dream parted from the kiss with a gentle groan and frantic breaths, lungs burning. George stared up at him, eyes wide and doe-like, lips already kissed red. It made something in Dream ache dully, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Something he got so tired of faking. Dream reached forward, his thumb gently caressing his bottom lip, eyes lidded and primal. “George,” he whispered.

“Dream?”

Dream took hold of George’s wrist, and slowly guided his hand between Dream’s thighs. It was evident, by the hard-on George could feel, Dream wasn’t faking any of this. It made him feel better, sure, but it was a hell of a way to prove it. George nibbled at his bottom lip, before slowly speaking. “...what do you want to do about it?”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Dream said quickly, face going red as he realized the position he’d put the both of them in, “this was just the quickest way I could think to prove it to you. George, the things you do to me, my sweet little angel…”

The nickname sent George’s head spinning like a record. “Angel?” he spoke, “is that still because you want to kill me?”

“No,” Dream laughed, placing George’s hand back in his own lap. “You really do look like an angel. You’re perfect, and sweet, and… ethereal.”

George’s cheeks tinted pink and he lowered his gaze to the ground, swallowing. “As- as much fun as this is, there’s still things we need to talk about,” he began slowly. “Like… what we’re going to do now. Phil obviously knows somethings up, he sent people after us--”

“Confession time, again,” Dream interrupted, “you were supposed to die. Just then. An hour ago.”

_ “What?” _ George spluttered, eyes wide. “Why?  _ How?” _

“I lead you into a place, very much out in the open, that I knew you wouldn’t think was suspicious. Those men were going to shoot you once they knew that you didn’t suspect anything, and once I was clear from the fire. But… I couldn’t let it happen. So I tackled you to the ground and ran away with you, to the one place Phil won’t find us. For now, anyway. We’ll probably have to move again soon.”

“Okay…” George said, hating the way his voice quivered. He’d been so close to death. So close, he could practically see the Reaper. And he hadn’t even known it. He would’ve died, not knowing that Dream was the one behind the murder. 

The thought made him nauseated.

“Well, that still means that Phil has it out for us,” George continued, “by now, the men would have returned to his HQ and told him that we got away. He’ll be sending more after us, so we…”

“...keep running,” Dream finished with a shrug. “We have to.”

“No, we can’t just run away forever. Phil’s smart, he’ll figure out some way to pin us against each other, or… something, we have to overthrow the whole thing from the roots,” George explained.

Dream met his eyes, a small, action-hungry smirk taking over his features. “George, what are you implying?”

“I’m implying that we overthrow the mafia, Dream,” George matched his smirk, eyes gleaming excitedly. “That’s what I’m saying. Do you concur?”

“I do,” Dream smirked, “there’s no one else I’d rather have as my partner in crime.”

“A crime against a crime,” George mused, “does that mean a double negative? Does that mean it’s legal?”

“Hardly,” Dream grinned. “But we won’t have to worry about legalities. We’ve got the two most skilled hitmen in the mafia working together to take the whole thing down. We won’t have to worry about a thing.”

George smiled, the words consoling him, though something still upset him deep down. “Dream?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you promise that you’ll come home?”

The words sat heavily in the air. It wasn’t things that George would typically ask of anyone, because he didn’t get attached to people. He hadn’t had any attachments to anyone since his family had burned to a crisp in front of him at six years old. And now here he was, asking Dream to promise him something he knew, realistically, would mean nothing in the heat of battle. Promises can be broken unwillingly when one thing goes wrong, and proves to be fatal.

“I promise, George.”

The fake promise soothed his nerves regardless.

“Can you promise  _ me _ something?” Dream asked. 

George’s head lifted, and Dream slowly moved to tug George into his lap, the latter’s head resting beneath his chin. Dream combed his fingers through George’s hair, blunt nails delicately scratching and massaging at his scalp. His free hand moved to wrap around his waist, and he began to sway back and forth. When he spoke, George could feel the way it rumbled through his chest, and it reminded him of a cat purring.

“Promise me that you’ll survive?”

The same situation. Promises could be broken in an instant, but it was comforting to know that Dream cared enough about him to ask him to make a petty promise in return. It’s not like he didn’t know the stakes; it was purely for comfort. George could respect that.

“I promise, Dream.”

“Alright…” Dream chuckled, closing his eyes and shifting to lean against the wall. “Get some sleep, and then we kick mafia ass.”

“Together?”

“Together, always.”


	9. trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Infiltration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you elle for assisting with the main writing of this chapter!!! it was so so fun to work on it with you, there's no one else i'd rather have help me with this project than you :)
> 
> find her on twitter! @ERR0RGEO

“Do you even know where we’re supposed to go?” George asked. His head was still reeling from the past few days - he felt like he'd left half of his body behind. 

Dream shrugged, “I know. Just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“You sound nervous,” Dream said. He looked up at George, frowning at him like he’s worried. He patted the couch cushion next to him, “come sit down. You don’t have to be afraid, George. I’ll take care of you, you know?”

“I’m not afraid,” George said. He felt defensive. He sat next to Dream on the couch (the one that looks and feels half eaten by bed bugs, torn up the back and halfway down the side), pausing over how much space to put between them. He settled with a foot or so, that’s close enough before his heart starts pounding in his chest.

Dream seemed dissatisfied with this, frowning and moving close enough to wrap an arm around his waist, tugging him close, George all but toppling into his lap. The latter gazed up at him, heart rate spiking, and Dream gave him a charmed smile. “You were too far away. What’s wrong, Georgie? I don’t bite,” he giggled, the question seeming more like a statement. George managed a smile, easing into the crooked embrace. The mild discomfort made Dream’s teasing cease, and he gently placed a hand against his cheek, thumb caressing the poised bone in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” Dream smiled at him with reassurance. 

It worked to ease George’s nerves, but not his pounding heart. Dream pulled a pen from somewhere, uncapping it with his teeth and dragging the coffee table (which is in an almost equal state of disrepair. It wobbled whenever someone touched it; all its legs are different lengths) closer to them. He drew a blueprint of a building on the surface, marking where the doors and windows are. “So, look, this is their main building.”

“It looks kind of small,” George quipped.

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly to scale,” Dream laughed, almost. 

“Aren’t you an artist?” George fired back, a tiny smirk toying at his lips. 

Dream grinned wider as he drew several long lines across the outline. “It’ll look bigger when you’re there and they’re all pointing a gun at you. Anyway, there’s a window here. We can get in there, and it’ll lead us right onto a catwalk in the ceiling.”

“So we’re going stealth?”

“Did you think we’d be able to just walk in through the front door?” Dream asked. “Of course we’re going stealth.”

George grimaced, turning his attention back to the crude map Dream has drawn. “Alright. So where do we go after that?”

Dream guided the end of the pen along one of the lines he drew, “we’ll move along here. It’ll lead us over everything and keep us off the ground. It’ll be safer, and it gives us a direct line to where we need to go.”

“Okay,” George said, “How do you know where everything is?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dream pressed, “it was my home, just as it was yours. Of course I still remember where everything is. I was with Phil more than you were, anyway.”

He’s not sure why the words stung, but it made George lower his gaze to the floor. He supposed it was true, and he felt guilty for doubting Dream. He was just trying to help. George forced himself to relax, forced away the tension from the past few days. Dream wasn’t the enemy here.

“That doesn’t matter anyways. Look, from here, we can get through to the heart of the building-” Dream continued to explain, before George chimed up:

“What’s at the heart of the building?” 

“The root, George,” Dream replied with an easy smile. He circled a spot in the centre of his map, marking a black spot in the middle of it before capping the pen and turning to George. At once, George sees who Dream has been hiding from him. “ _Phil._ ”

-

Dream was right, George realised, when Dream led him to the edge of the building.

For as destroyed as it seems, a barely standing warehouse covered in woodworm and dying ivy, he still felt the stirrings of familiar intimidation in his stomach. He knew there was nothing here that could hurt him, but George still found himself patting the gun at his side to make sure it was still there.

Dream stopped him just outside a perimeter of tall fences. “You have to follow my lead now,” he said, “you have to trust me. Do what I say. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, George. This won’t work if you aren’t with me.”

George had never seen Dream so serious. In a sense, Dream was always trying to make light of the worst type of situations. He can’t help but wonder what changed. He frowned, speaking softly, “I’m with you, Dream. Of course I am. I… trust you.” And he did. He hoped that calmed Dream, in some regard.

The latter lightened up slightly, his tense expression moving into his usual more carefree smile, “good. Are you ready?”

George nodded. Dream held a finger to his lips as he started towards the fences. There’s a gate there, ajar, but only slightly. Once they were close enough, Dream pushed it, and ushered George through.

As soon as he’s on the grounds, George feels his muscles tense up again. He’s walked this road before, but not since he was a kid, and he remembered every footstep he had taken here. It wasn’t a welcome reminder. Dream looked at him when his breath hitched.

“I’m fine,” George said. “Just. Being back here is weird.”

“That’s why you’ll follow my lead,” Dream said, “I wouldn’t lead you into any danger.”

They both paused.

“Well,” Dream amended, “not too much danger, anyway.”

It’s the first time George had felt like smiling out here, and of course Dream was the root. Dream offered one back, guiding them around to the back of the building. Now that they’re here, George can practically envision the map Dream had made back in the shitty, rickety, run-down old apartment.

As gross as it was, he finds himself missing it now.

“There it is,” Dream said. He spoke quieter now, and George felt it run up his back like claws. The air is weird here; stagnant and hot, and it stuck in his throat whenever he tried to take a breath. He can’t quite get enough air. He hates what it reminds him of. Dream pointed at a window set into the north-facing wall of the building. “That’s where we’ll get in.”

“It’s twenty feet in the air,” George said. He’s protesting, he knows, but there’s nothing here. “How are we going to get up there?”

Dream grinned at him. It’s like he enjoys this. Like he likes playing the mastermind. “I asked if you trusted me, right?”

“I do. I do trust you.” There’s less hesitation this time. It makes Dream smile.

(George refuses to admit to himself that he feels less sure about it by the minute).

“Good,” Dream said. He approached the wall, flattening a hand against it, gaze flicking over it, up and down. George stepped up behind him. “So, just follow my lead, okay?”

Before George had a chance to really think about it, Dream hooked both his hands in gaps in the wall, pressing his feet against it, and started to haul himself upwards. The way he scaled it was almost animalistic, almost primal; less human, more machine-level focus. He made it look easy, digging nails into crumbling brickwork and pulling himself towards the window as if he weighed nothing.

“Your turn!” Dream called, his voice floating down. He’d balanced on the edge of the sill, looking about one wrong move from falling. George felt ill.

He mimicked the position Dream had, curling his fingers into gaps and trying not to think about how easy it would be to fall. He’s done things like this before. He _trusts_ Dream.

He could do this.

Dream grinned at him. George doesn’t think about the look in his eyes, the one that seems like he would find it humorous if George really did fall, as he pulled himself up and up and up. Finally, Dream grabbed at his forearm with a grip that burned and pulled him onto the sill as well.

“Oh, my God.”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dream asked with a wide grin, and it made George wonder if he was an adrenaline junkie. The type of person to enjoy that guttural fear. He let go of George, which only made George ten times as anxious, turning to start pushing at the window. It moved upwards an inch with a groan, and George winced.

“It was pretty bad,” he admitted. Dream pushed the window further, until there was just about enough space for them to slide through it.

He gestured at it. “Go on, then.”

George pointed at himself, “me first? But I don’t even know where I’m--”

“Yes, you first. Just go.”

He cringed, curling his legs up and around to squeeze through it. It was dark inside, dark enough that he couldn’t quite see where he was going to end up. It was a tighter fit than he thought, but he made it, touching his feet down on corrugated metal.

Dream followed with infinitely more grace, like he’d done it a thousand times before. “See? I told you it was going to go fine.”

“I never doubted you.”

“Sure, you didn’t,” Dream said. It sounded like an accusation, like one George wasn’t quite meant to hear. He ignored it, waiting for Dream to pull the window fully shut again. He spoke slightly louder, addressing George properly, “are you ready for the next phase?”

“Phase?” George repeated. In a way, he thought it was cute. Dream used terminology one might hear in a spy movie. It warmed his heart and made Dream feel much more human, starkly contrasting the rest of their shared time here. “Sure. Let’s just get it over with.”

Dream smiled, beckoning him across the catwalk with a crook of his finger. “That’s the spirit, George.”

The metal creaked with almost every step, and George couldn’t help his grimace every time. Dream didn’t seem too bothered by it. If anything, he seemed braver with each one. 

The bridge stretched out over a large open space, revealing several groups of people milling about. George almost recognised it. He definitely recognised the twinge of fear in his lungs, the goosebumps up the back of his neck at the idea of getting caught. He wondered what Phil would say, what Phil would _do,_ when he found out they were sneaking around.

Dream pulled a gun from its holster. He motioned for George to stay back, when a corner approached and Dream slowed in front of it. George kept a hand on his own weapon - if worse came to worst, he knew how to pull a trigger like the best of them.

Dream whipped around it, angled his gun at eye level. There’s no gunfire, thankfully, and George followed with a stuttering, relieved sigh. “We’re getting close, aren’t we?” he said, whispered, still under his breath just in case. There must be eyes everywhere.

“We are,” Dream confirmed. He didn't put the gun back, but he lowered it slightly, continuing along. He seemed almost nervous now, taking steps tentatively. George felt Dream’s fear infect his own, ramping up in the back of his head.

They stopped above a gap in the catwalk. A ladder led down, old and rusted. George heard it groan before either of them touched it.

“This is it,” Dream said. “It’s nearly over.”

“Phil’s just down there?” George asked, swallowing dryly as the situation became far more real.

“Yeah,” Dream confirmed, taking a deep breath. “I’ll go first, okay?”

“But what if he--”

“This isn’t negotiable,” Dream cut off, approaching the ladder. “Just wait for my call. Okay? Trust me,” he reinforced.

George took a breath, and trusted. He gave a nod of his head, and all at once, Dream hopped down. It was eerily quiet. Too quiet. George itched to race down there in case it had gone wrong, but he stood, and he waited, like he was instructed to do. After a few painful minutes, Dream’s voice rang out, “come down.”

Down he went.

He used the ladder, unlike Dream, and slowly turned around, gun drawn, at the scene before him. What he was met with terrified him.

“Don’t shoot,” Dream said, hands shaking around the grip of his gun as it was aimed directly between George's eyes, “or I will.”


	10. climax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last, integral moments.

George froze.

He stared into the barrel, stared Death in the eyes, and he did not blink.

“Dream?”

“Don’t shoot,” Dream said, and it was then that George noted the way his hands trembled. The tone of his voice was so laced with fear, it was near impossible to muster up for the sake of an act, even with Dream’s talent. “Please.”

What was going on?

“Okay…” George slowly put the gun back in its holster, raising his hands. “I won’t shoot. Gun down.”

“No,” Dream said, voice more tremor than word, “on the ground. Drop it, and kick it over to me.”

“Dream, that’s the only weapon I have--”

“Dream,” Phil, who George had just realized was, in fact, in the room, spoke up.

“George, please!” Dream begged, tears lining his eyes. “Just give me the gun. Please.”

George’s hand slowly went back to his hip, drawing the gun back out, before whipping it out and aiming it at Phil’s head. Immediately, a gunshot rang out.

George jumped ten feet in the air upon realizing Dream had shot a hole in the metal, two inches from George’s foot. “Fucking drop it!” Dream screamed, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

George dropped the gun, kicking it with the toe of his shoe over to Dream. “I thought we had a plan!” The older hissed, “I thought we were gonna take it down from the root! I thought we were together!”

“I’m so sorry,” Dream’s voice croaked out, and at that moment, George knew that Dream wasn’t acting. He’d never heard that much raw emotion stuffed into a single man’s tone before in his life. You can’t fake that kind of pain. 

So what the fuck does this mean for him?

“So am I dead, then?” George asked, hands raised defensively. “Is this where I die?”

“Not unless that’s what you bring on yourself, George.”

Phil.

Phil stood up, walking over towards Dream. “Do you see him, George? Look at him. Take it in.”

George’s eyes flicked back to Dream. Dream, the suave, playful artist from the coffee shop that painted him as an angel. Dream, who always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dream, who memorized his order and the time at which he’d be where within days of knowing each other. Dream, whose hands were always soiled. With paint, but soiled nonetheless. Dream, who had always had a bigger part to play in this then George suspected. 

His Dream.

Dream stood, entire body shaking, hot, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping against the metal at his feet. Dream, the perfect shot, the nine year old from his mafia sector that got away. The winged kid. The one who flew to freedom. 

Was this what freedom looked like?

Dream always said he was closer to Phil than anyone else, yet never his favorite. Dream said he was taught how to manipulate. How can you teach someone something like that, without manipulating and abusing them yourself? Suddenly, everything fell into place.

Dream, who was just as much of a pawn in Phil’s game as he was.

The realization made George’s heart sink in his chest. Dream had lead George here, like Phil’s obedient little dog, and now Dream was right where Phil wanted him. George was expendable, George was never the best. Dream was top-class. Dream had been a killer, a manipulator, his entire life. Dream was nothing but the best. 

Dream, who was  _ more _ of a pawn than George was. 

The realization that none of this was about him made his head spin and go topsy turvy, and he nearly fell backwards. Everything he thought he knew--about life, about Dream, about Phil, about his job--crumbled around him in this one moment. George had no idea what type of shit Phil had put Dream through, but the fact that he’d pushed Dream to this point, was explanation enough. 

Dream didn’t want to do this, and that, at least, was comforting for George. Knowing that the manipulation, the breaches of trust; those weren’t really him. Those were Phil, pulling the strings, wrapping Dream around his finger like a puppet. 

But why?

What did Phil have over Dream, other than control--but that wasn’t motive enough, not anymore. George finally believed Dream when he said he loved him, this was proof enough, and now he was still turning on him when it caused him this much distress? Something else was here. Something was holding Dream at Phil’s hip. 

He figured it had something to do with their few moments of silent exchange before Dream beckoned George down. 

But what? What was the one thing in life that Dream cared about? What was strong enough to make him act like this?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. 

He might never know.

“Dream?” George spoke softly, “hey… hey… it’s okay, okay? We’re gonna… we’re gonna get out of this.”

Dream sniffled, his eyes still wide with shock and paralyzing fear as the tears rolled down his cheeks like a faucet. “George,” he brokenly wept, and George’s heart snapped, “I’m scared.”

“I’m so sorry,” George whispered, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Look at the two of you,” Phil laughed, and the sound was pure sadism. It made George’s skin crawl. “You think you know what love is? Huh? You think that  _ this _ is love? Look at him, George!”

George didn’t think he could bare to stare into those broken eyes again. 

“He’s willing to kill you, right now, just because I  _ told _ him to! If he loved you, would he do that? Would he betray you this easily, if he really cared?”

George felt sick. The push and pull, the sway of silver-tongued manipulators on both sides of his mind, tugging him in either direction--it felt like he was being torn in two. He knew the last person he should be trusting is Phil, but Dream hasn’t exactly made himself perfectly trustworthy either, has he?

“And you… you chose love over the mafia! The only family you have, the only family you’ll ever have, the only people there to save your sorry ass; you were willing to toss us to the hounds for the slightest glimmer of attraction you had for this  _ stranger!” _ Phil laughed again, “I ought to kill you right now, just for disobeying us!” He reached for his gun.

George winced.

“Phil!” Dream barked, “we had a deal.”

Phil paused, with a chuckle. “That’s right, we did. Dream, why don’t you tell him? Why don’t you tell him what deal we made?”

George looked back at Dream’s face, the way he was biting his lip so hard it bled, the way his arms were shaking even more from holding the gun between George’s eyes for this long. Every second took a bigger and bigger toll on him. George couldn’t stand it.

“I was going to kill you, Phil wanted me to kill you, he told me I had to,” Dream whispered, voice unable to go any louder. George had to strain his ears to hear him at all. “But I begged for you. I begged for your life. I told him I’d do anything to save you. He… he told me that as long as I protected him with my own life, so long as I understood that if anything happened to him, I’d be tortured and killed myself… that you could live. I had to prove my loyalty, I had to prove to him I was devoted… if I wanted to save you.”

The words hit George like a truck, and he wanted to cry. Dream did that, for him? Dream put his life on the line--he was okay with potential  _ torture _ , just to save him? 

“Why?” George whispered.

“Because I love you, George,” Dream whispered back, voice quivering and breaking. “I love you. It’s the first time I’ve ever loved. My p-parents, they were never… there, they…” Dream hiccuped out another sob. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved. You’re my world. I’d rather it be you, than me.”

George was rendered speechless.

The winged kid was no bird, no angel that flew away, no smart kid that snuck away to freedom; he was the most caged of them all. If he was the one that was winged, Phil had grabbed him by the wings and ripped them off, leaving him bloodied and wounded and stranded to the ground. Phil had teased him with a glimpse at freedom, at a happy, normal life, only to rip it away from him painfully in front of his very eyes.

Dream was the real victim here, more than anybody else. How hadn’t George seen that sooner?

Phil had manipulated them all.

Phil laughed again, head tossed back as the sadistic sound tore through his throat and bounced off the walls, causing both of the others to startle. “Look at you! Two caged birds, what will they do?” He strode forward, inches from Dream, moving to place his hands overtop Dream’s, around the gun. Phil steadied his shaking hand, and Phil placed Dream’s finger against the trigger.

“He’ll always listen to me, George. You’ll never be able to break through the layers of trust he has in me, the layers of loyalty. What love he thinks he has for you is nothing in comparison to his loyalty to me. You might as well leave now,” Phil sneered, “or I’ll have him shoot you where you stand.”

“No,” Dream croaked, a sob tearing through his throat. Even with Phil’s steady hands, George still watched the barrel quiver, “please.”

He had to think. He had to think fast. He stared at his gun at Dream’s feet, and then the gun pointed right between his eyes. He looked at Dream, and an idea clicked. He did his best to try to convey it, thinking as hard as he could, hoping that in some miracle it’d enter Dream’s mind. 

He bent his knees slightly, and raised his arms. It was a tiny signal, but Dream seemed to understand. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. George did, too. One wrong move, and it was over for one of them.

He suddenly dove to the ground, and the gunshot rang. It missed. George’s eyes widened, and he grabbed the gun at Dream’s feet, pointing it at Phil.

Two gunshots echoed through the room, and two bodies dropped to the metal ground.


	11. requiescat in pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always hard to say goodbye.

The world fell into a state of silence, after the loud bangs echoed off the walls and resulted in a hefty quiet. Everything stilled. His breathing, his movement, and the world itself seemed to stall on its axis. He couldn’t believe what happened, couldn’t believe what he saw right now, before his eyes.

The twang of blood hit his nose, and made him want to gag. He fell against the wall, eyes wide and terrified as he stared at the two bodies in front of him. Slowly, he approached Phil’s. 

“You asshole,” he seethed, voice shaking. “You’re a scumbag.”

Phil let out a laugh that bubbled and frothed blood into his mouth, sending him into a coughing fit. His eyes were still gleaming with sadism as they always had, knowing that even now, even in death, he’d won. 

And he had. He’d won.

“He ain’t got much time left, boy,” Phil wheezed out, a line of blood falling from the corner of his mouth to form a small pool beside the growing one underneath him. “You best say your goodbyes now, while you have the chance.”

He slowly got to his feet, before sending a sharp kick to Phil’s ribs. The other male grunted loudly in pain, rolling over onto his side to clutch at the bullet hole against his ribs. He coughed more blood, having it splatter against the metal floor. George stared at him, watching silently as he took what he knew would be his last breaths. His last minutes on this Earth.

He turned his back. He slowly knelt down beside the other body; the body that was terrifyingly still. “...Dream?” George whispered.

Dream’s eyes were still open, and his hand was resting against his stomach, applying a light amount of pressure to try to keep the breathing at bay. “Hi, Georgie,” he whispered. 

George nearly sobbed at the words alone. The way Dream looked at him, the way his eyes were already resigned, the way he already seemed hopeless. The way he greeted Death with a smile, as if it were a welcome release.

It made George ache with familiarity. 

“Dream, we’re… we’re gonna get out,” George promised, moving to take his hand that wasn’t clutching his abdomen. “We’re gonna get out, and you’re gonna be fine, and we’ll move on from this, together. No more mafia, no more strings attached, nothing; we’ll be free to live our lives, we can… we can do anything you want, we can move in together, we can get engaged, we can… have a future,” George’s voice began to waver, and Dream let go of his hand to rest his against George’s tear-stained cheek.

“George. It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” George choked out, “Yeah. It is okay. Because you’re not going to fucking die, Dream! Not on my watch!” George bent down, wrapping Dream’s free arm around his shoulders, his other arm moving to support him. “Come on. Let me carry you.”

“No,” Dream breathed out, weakly pushing at his chest. “George. Stop.”

“No!” George shrieked, clutching onto him. “Shut the fuck up, Dream, I’m not going to sit back and watch you die!”

Dream was sent into a coughing fit, and George cringed as he felt a splatter of blood against his face. He was reminded, days prior, of Dream. Dream, who consumed his every thought, Dream, who had paint splattered against his face. It had been so cute, then. So child-like, so human; an artist getting paint everywhere, it was just something that seemed plausible. He would’ve never expected it to turn out like this.

He gripped onto Dream, hauling him into his arms and biting his lip at the pained noise Dream tried, but failed, to muffle. “I’m sorry,” George whispered as he began to walk, “I know it hurts, but we have to get you out of here.”

“George,” Dream murmured, pushing at him again. “Just let me go, there’s no way you’re getting me out of here without them gunning you down. It’s better me, than you.”

“Stop saying that!” George sobbed, gripping onto him tighter. “I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting you go!”

The halls were swamped with armed men. They were probably surrounded, George knew. He had to think of something, quick. Phil had said Dream was the best of the best, right? The one that people needed to protect? He was the expendable one, not Dream. So maybe he could use that.

He reached down, taking Phil’s gun, as it was the best one of the three, and placed it against Dream’s temple. The way Dream’s eyelids fluttered closed and he took a breath of resignation made George want to cradle him in his arms, rock him into a blissful sleep until all of this was over. 

“I’m not going to shoot,” he murmured. “I’m gonna use you as a hostage to get out of here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dream whispered, head falling into the crook of George’s neck. “If that’s what you want.”

George hated everything about this.

He kicked open the door, rather than trying to scale the ladder with a dying man in his arms, immediately holding the gun against Dream’s temple. “Don’t shoot!” George shrieked, eyes wide and panicked. “Don’t shoot, or I shoot him! I kill him, right now! And Phil would have your asses! You don’t want that, do you?”

They had no way of knowing their boss was dead, or dying. 

The mafia men kept their guns trained on the two of them, so George cocked the gun and pressed the cold tip against the hot skin of his temple. “Drop them!” He cried.

They did as obeyed. George began to walk out of the warehouse. He was so close, and it was so much easier this way, to just walk out instead of scaling walls, climbing along catwalks. He couldn’t do that, not with Dream’s current condition. George was so close to the exit, he was about thirty feet away, before he heard someone scream.

“Phil’s dead! Get them!”

Time’s up.

George took off into a sprint, being sure to duck and weave, praying, hoping for the best. He could feel the way Dream tensed up in his arms, and it gave George all the determination he needed to keep running. He ran faster than he had in his entire life, hauling for the exit. He kicked it open, slammed it behind him, and sprinted off into the woods.

He didn’t stop running until his legs gave out. He fell to the mossy floor, panting, lungs whistling with exertion. All the while, he gripped Dream close to his chest, even though his arms ached. George could tell the pain was getting to him.

Dream kept shifting in his arms, and his suppressed winces weren’t suppressed anymore. His eyes, that had been fully open, lay now half lidded. He was running out of time.

George hauled himself back to his shaking legs, taking one step after the other. That’s all he could do. One step, another, and another, heading towards the direction of town. There were doctors in town. They’d dealt with worse, right? They could save Dream. They could save him. They could…

Dream let out a whimper of pain, shifting and squirming in his arms, desperately trying to get comfortable. George’s heart ached. He knew he had to make a choice. He looked ahead. There was no sign of town in sight. Dream only had minutes left. It was time. Even if he sprinted now, there was a very possible chance of him not getting there in time, and then what? Dream’s final moments would have been spent hoping, wishing, and wanting George to console him. His last minutes would have been spent in pain, and alone.

George made the choice that was best for Dream. 

He stopped walking. He slowly sat down on the mossy, leaf-covered floor. He held Dream in his arms, close to his chest. “Hey. Hey, Dream. Can you hear me?”

Dream’s eyes were hardly open. George glanced at the way they’d came, and saw drops of blood against the leaves. He’d lost so much blood. There was nothing he could do. “Georgie…”

“I’m here,” George said, eyes misty and voice trembling. “I’m here, Dream. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m not,” Dream murmured back. “George. It’s okay. Let me go.”

George bowed his head, biting his quivering lip. “I don’t want to,” he whispers, “Dream… I’m scared.”

The blonde gave a weak smile, a shaky hand moving to rest against George’s cheek, bloodied thumb rubbing George’s cheekbone.  _ “You’re _ going to be okay. I’m going somewhere better than here, and I’m never going to leave you. Not really. I’ll always be watching over you, I’ll always be there, I’ll always be waiting for you to come join me again.”

George muffled a hiccupy sob into his sleeve, and he gripped Dream tighter. “I don’t want to let go,” he whispered.

Dream kept smiling, kept his hand against his cheek. “All I’m doing is leaving this body. That never means I’m leaving you. I don’t care where I end up; I’ll fight any god or devil or man that tries to keep me from you. I’m never letting  _ you _ go, George.”

George lowered his head, resting it against Dream’s chest. He heard his slowing heartbeat, and he took a shaky inhale. “You’re going to get to see your family, Dream.”

“Yours, too. Guess this is… a hell of a way to meet the parents,” Dream let out a small chuckle, followed by a gasp. Dream began to writhe around, the pain finally becoming too much.

“Hey, hey, hey,” George soothed, voice shaking as he held Dream close. He began gently rocking him in his arms, carding his fingers through golden locks, tinted red. “Dream, you’re okay…”

He was reminded of the alleys. Of Dream’s strong arms wrapping around him. The comfort it gave. The comfort his words gave.

“Just relax, okay?” George bit his lip harder, uttering the same words Dream had uttered to him. “Just relax, close your eyes, and when they open, it won’t hurt anymore.”

He supposed he got his wish of rocking Dream to sleep until it was over. But not exactly in the way that he wanted.

A ghost of a smile grazed Dream’s lips again, and his hand fell from George’s cheek to weakly grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him down so lips met ear. “I love you. Take your time to come find me again. You’re free, George. Enjoy it.”

And then the hand dropped to Dream’s chest limply, and his head slowly turned to the side. George felt his body go limp; every single muscle relaxing all at once, deadweight lay slack against him.

And he screamed.

He screamed until his throat was raw, he screamed, he cried, he gripped Dream’s corpse and sobbed into his clothes--the clothes that still smelled like coffee and paint. Despite it all, Dream’s humanity always found ways of coming through. 

George couldn’t tell you how long he stayed there, gripping his boyfriend’s corpse to his own aching body. It felt like years. It was probably only eight or nine hours. When he’d finally had enough, cried all he could cry, screamed all he could scream, he took Dream’s body into his arms one last time. He found a tree, leaves tinged yellow with autumn’s presence, and he rested his body against the sturdy trunk.

He walked off to find flowers. Flowers, or pretty weeds, anything that reminded him of Dream. He picked them up and held them in his hand, gathering enough that he could go back to the corpse again. He knelt beside it, beginning to tie some of the stems of the flowers together, knitting a flower crown. He placed it atop Dream’s head. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to now cold skin of his cheek, and began to place the rest of the flowers along his body.

He was surprised that no tears followed the movement, but he supposed it made sense. He’d been crying for seven or eight hours now, his body had to run out sometime. He took a few more shaky breaths, before moving to look at him again. His fingers gently shut Dream’s eyes. He looked peaceful, like he was sleeping. If George tried really hard, he could almost see the peaceful smile on his face.

George combed his fingers through his soft hair one more time, murmuring a quiet,  _ “ _ _ Requiescat in Pace” _ , and standing up. It felt like he was tearing himself in two again, leaving Dream behind. Every step was pain.

But it slowly got easier. Steps got lighter. The further he got, the less the urge to turn back was. One foot in front of the other. That’s all it was. One step. Then another. 

Finally, the town came into view. He knew he looked a mess, he knew he was covered in blood, he knew he looked like he just crawled out of Hell. 

Perhaps that was because he had.

But still, he stepped. He kept walking. He didn’t even know where he was going, at first, until the familiar ding of the bell sounded over his head. He walked to the counter.

“The usual,” George rasped.

The poor bartender looked horrified as she stared at him. “Sir? Are you--”

“Large caramel latte and a chocolate chip muffin,” George repeated, “and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Two minutes later, George took the drink and muffin, setting the money on the counter and walking out. One foot in front of the other. 

He wound up back in Dream’s disgusting apartment. The whole thing really was horrendous; eaten up by bugs, the couch was in disarray, there wasn’t even a bed. But it was home. It was home, because it was Dream. The familiar waft of paint toxins hit his nose, and he’d never felt more at ease.

He sank down slowly onto the rickety couch that groaned with his weight, and he looked at the muffin bag and large coffee in his hand. 

And he began to cry again.


	12. domesticality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And all he saw were stars.

The days felt like years. It hurt, every time he thought about it. Every time he woke up in Dream’s apartment without the latter tangled in his arms, it hurt. Breathing in the paint fumes hurt his head, hurt his heart, and not for health concerns--though, why didn’t Dream have any windows in his home studio? And why was  _ this _ his home studio?--until he’d finally found the source one day.

He figured if he moved Dream’s paint somewhere, the fumes would go with it, but it didn’t. He continued searching around, until he found a covered easel in the corner that reeked of paint. He’d moved to pull down the tarp, but he couldn’t make himself.

It hurt.

George’s hand fell back to his side, and he retreated from the covered easel, fleeing the apartment. He tried to continue life on like normal. He did his absolute best to live the life Dream would have lived alongside him. He descended the stairs and walked along the pavement. The stars were out, it was night, but he didn’t look. It felt wrong to look.

He entered the coffee shop with a soft ding of the bell, and he slowly approached the counter. “...caramel latte. Large. Muffin. You know,” George stumbled through his words, voice meek and quiet. The barista smiled empathetically, having noted the way that he’d been suffering lately. It was evident to anyone with eyes. He had bags from loss of sleep under his eyes, his hair was greasy and matted, he constantly looked like he just rolled out of bed, and the only jacket that he ever wore was one that he found in Dream’s closet. It was way too big, and he had to push his hands out of the sleeves constantly, but it was all the warmth he had of Dream.

He took the coffee and muffin bag in his hands, quickly spinning around--

“Hey! That’s hot! Watch where you’re going!”

George’s breath caught in his throat as he snapped his head up. The blonde grinned down at him, giving him a wink with emerald eyes. “Sure was hot, Georgie.”

What?

He blinked, and was met with the cold, stern eyes of a very tall man that looked like he could snap George like a twig in an instant. “Hello?” He snapped, “you gonna apologize?”

“I’m- I’m so sorry,” George choked out, his gaze snapping back down.

“George,” the barista soothed, “do you want another one? On the house?”

“Um. No,” George backed away from the both of them, heading towards the door. “I’m just gonna go.”

“George…” She called gently, and George took off running out the door.

He ran down the sidewalk, dropping the muffin bag somewhere along the way. He sprinted, running and running, and every step felt more and more like he was in danger. Some impending doom if he stopped, something horrible would happen if he turned around.

But it never did.

He managed to stop himself when he got to the park. He looked around at the painfully familiar surroundings, and he moved to sit on top of the picnic table. He reached into his pocket, taking out a pack of cigarettes. 

He lit one.

He pressed it to his lips.

_ “If it hurts you, then why do you do it?” _

_ George had been stunned by the question. He turned his head to the side, staring at the tall blonde in front of him. He blinked, taking another hit of the cig and feeling himself fight the urge to cough again at the sooty feeling in his throat. “What?” _

_ “Smoking,” Dream clarified, tilting his head like a curious dog as George wiped the tears from his eyes. “It makes you cough. Why do you do it?” _

_ What a question that was. George let out a small laugh at first, anxiously glancing back down. How was he meant to tell this innocent stranger that he smoked because his parents died in a house fire when he was little? How was he meant to tell him that every time he felt his lungs ache, it meant he was one step closer to them? To dying like them? The only people he’d ever loved? _

_ Why was this stranger so concerned about it, anyways? Didn’t he have anything better to do than critique the habits of a stranger he just met? Tons of people smoke, there doesn’t have to be some deeper meaning behind it. Just because there happened to be one here. _

_ How did he know? _

Looking back on it, Dream always seemed to know things. He had a hell of an intuition. George doubted he truly knew as much as he said he did, he must’ve been just guessing, had some kind of hunch. He was good at getting inside people’s minds, it was just what happened when you’re used like that. You get good at telling people’s motives.

George wished he could have done the same, sooner. Maybe he could’ve prevented this. Maybe, just maybe, George could’ve traded his life for Dream’s. Maybe Dream would be the one sitting here on the bench. Maybe he would have been smoking, even though he never did. Maybe he would’ve tried it, for George, to remember him. Maybe Dream would crane his head up and look at the stars.

The stars.

George still didn’t want to look. 

_ “I just do. I have to,” George had replied after another fit of nervous giggles, and Dream had hummed, as if that answer interested him.  _

_ Thankfully, Dream had dropped it, and George didn’t have to explain further. “And the stars?” Dream had asked next, another gentle pry under George’s skin. Another step closer to peering inside of his mind, seeing everything that was broken and trying to let it be fixed. “What of them are comforting to you?” _

_ George had felt himself ache at the question. What of them were comforting? He wasn’t really sure. He figured that his family was going to Heaven, they hadn’t done anything wrong that he knew of then.  _

Now, he knew that there was a reason that the mafia had to get involved. George never knew what, never knew what his family did to deserve it. He wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to know. Maybe some things were best left unknown.

Back then, he still thought the fire was an accident. They’d told him it was faulty wiring, they’d told him that it happens to the best of us. That this was fate. That George was meant to be here.

Now, he knew that he hadn’t meant to survive. No one knew what to do, how to handle the fact that a child survived the fire. There wasn’t much they could do. They couldn’t just leave him there now. That’s why they’d taken him the way that they had. 

_ “If I think about it long enough,” George had began-- _

“No,” George whimpered, his head falling into his hands. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear himself say those stupid fucking words.

_ “--I swear I can see the faces of people I’ve lost in the stars.” _

He took a shuddering sigh, gently gripping his hair in his knuckles. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the stars, not since Dream’s death. He didn’t want to be reminded. He didn't want to see. He wanted Dream to be here, to be real, to be sitting beside him right now. What he wouldn’t give for more stupid instrusive questions about his personal life, about his habits, about his past, anything. What he wouldn’t give to answer them honestly. Maybe things would be different, if he’d been honest. 

_ Dream had looked over at him with a knowing gleam to his eyes. He had a sympathetic smile, and the words that followed sounded less of a question and more of a sad, confirming statement. “You’ve lost someone?” _

_ George took another few hits of his cigarette, the burning in his lungs making him feel at home. He blew out a plume of smoke, moving his gaze back up towards the stars. The moon glared down at him from overhead, the stars glinted and twinkled against the stark black sky.  _

_ “I’ve lost everyone.” _

And wasn’t that the truth? Who could’ve known, who could’ve possibly known that now, he’d truly have lost everyone that he ever cared about. Even the stranger sitting next to him. Who could’ve known that anything would end up like this?

The worst part was now that Dream was gone, it was almost like he never had existed at all. Being in the mafia, you have to leave a lot of things behind. You can’t have anything, any ties to anything, or…

Well, or you’ll end up like him.

The only things that George had left of Dream was his paintings. He’d found a few by mistake, tucked away in the back of his closet collecting dust. He’d brushed them all off, hung them around the apartment. The one of him, the one with the angelic wings and halo, gaze turned towards the starry sky with a plume of smoke leaving his lips… he looked like an angel that was aflame from the inside out.

Yet another thing that Dream had predicted perfectly.

That one, he placed right above the sofa, or his bed. On the sleepless nights, he’d stare at it. He’d think about Dream’s elegant hands, painting those thin lines. His steady hands, never messing up, never missing the chance to capture the moment in pastel. His paintings weren’t much, but they were enough. 

Each night, his gaze would trail over to the covered easel in the corner. He knew that meant it was relatively new, he knew that meant it might be about something related to them, and he knew that meant it would hurt. He couldn’t afford to hurt anymore, not yet.

He was free, now. He knows he should start living his life again, he knows that he should try to live normally, live freely. That’s what Dream would have wanted. But it’s hard to break habits that have been inground in you since birth: don’t make friends, don’t look at anyone, just get in, kill, get out, get a new mission assigned, and go again. Rinse and repeat. 

He didn’t know how to fight against those primal-ingrained instincts in his brain. Didn’t even know where to start, until he had gone back to the coffee shop one morning.

“Hi, George,” the barista had greeted softly, her accent washing over him like a blanket of relief.

“Hi…” He paused, “did I ever get your name?”

“I don’t think so, it’s okay. I’m Niki,” she greeted warmly, “can I get you anything? You don’t have to pay, today. Just let me treat you. You’ve been going through it recently.”

Understatement of the year.

He smiled a bit awkwardly, nodding his head. “Uh, sure. Thanks, Niki.”

She smiled at him and went to work. “George, have you ever… considered therapy? I don’t want to overstep or anything, but I know that you’re struggling. I have no idea what happened, but I’ve never seen you like this before. I really think professional help would be good for you.”

“Is that why you’re making me a drink, Niki?” George gave a small smile, “so soften the blow to my wallet that therapy is going to be?”

“You’ve considered it?” Niki asked.

“I hadn’t until you said something, but… it’s not a bad idea,” George reached forward, taking the drink Niki placed, and taking a sip.

“I can try to find you someone good, I know a few people that have gone before and I can see who they like. When will I see you again?” Niki asked. 

“I don’t know,” George responded with a small chuckle. “Uh…”

“Well, here,” Niki took a napkin and a pen, beginning to neatly scribble down numbers. She extended it to him with a warm smile. “Text me sometime. We can get it set up.”

What? Wasn’t this something that… friends did? Friends exchanged numbers.

He had a friend?

He slowly took the napkin, glancing down at it, and then back up at her. Her smile was ever present and warm, and she placed a hand atop his gently. Warm and platonically loving. It was just what he needed. “You always have a friend in me, George. Whenever you need it. I’ll be here.”

George gave her a smile of his own, before turning and scurrying off down the sidewalk again. 

He had a friend.

He let it sink in, smiling to himself as he walked.  _ I made a friend, Dream. Are you proud of me? Can you hear me? I made a friend. _

He was at the park before he knew it, and he instinctively moved to sit atop the first table he saw. He took another sip, the coffee warming him from the inside out against the cool winter air. He reached into the bag and tugged out the muffin, tearing off a piece in his fingers and eating it. 

It was sweet. 

He took a sip of coffee.

It was bittersweet.

New beginnings were hard. It was hard to leave everything that you fought for, everything you were so devoted to. He wasn’t sure when, or if, he could love again romantically. For now, platonically seemed like a good start. Niki gave him home for the future, hope for a life where, down the line, therapy would heal him, and he could try again.

But for now, he’s doing the best he can.

And that’s enough.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and slowly craning his neck back. He knows if he opens his eyes now, he’ll be met with the starry night sky. He knows he’ll begin to connect stars to each other, just as he always had, and he’ll begin to see their faces. Their expressions always changed. Sometimes they were smiling. Sometimes they were scowling. Sometimes they were crying. But they were always there, watching him.

Another deep breath, and an encouraging bite of a muffin, before his eyelids slowly fluttered open. 

And all he saw were stars.

-

The walk home felt lighter. He no longer felt like he was dragging a lead ball behind him with every step, he felt like he’d been cut free. He felt like this was closure. He felt like this was new beginnings. 

He entered the apartment with a smile, closing the door behind him. He sat down against the couch, moving to lay down, before his eyes caught sight of that stupid easel in the corner again. He paused.

It still hurt.

He sat back up fully, sitting on the edge of his seat.

It was going to hurt for a while, he bargained to himself. It might always hurt. But hurting is okay. Holding onto things that you love isn’t bad, it’s admirable--especially when you’ve come this far for those things that you love.

If this hurt, that was good. It meant that all he’d done was worth it.

He got to his feet, slowly moving across the creaky floorboards, and towards the tarp. His fingers touched it. He was touching it. He’d never gotten this far before. He took a shaky inhale, and then a shaky exhale. 

“It’s okay if it hurts,” he murmured to himself. “It means I cared.” He pulled off the tarp.

And it hurt.

It hurt so bad his heart fell to his shoes, and a hand flung up to cover his mouth. He felt tears stinging his eyes, blurring his vision already. 

On the canvas, he was met with a smiling face. It was hyper-realistic, yet it still had the flair of an artist that was unmistakably him. The worst part was, it was unfinished. Half of it was still left unpainted. The outlines were all there, but it wasn’t colorful. It lacked the final touches.

And then a piece of paper fell and fluttered to the ground out of the tarp. George took a deep breath, picking it up, and letting out a muffled wail of grief at the handwriting he recognized all too well.

_ Hi, George.  _

_ If you’re seeing this, the worst has already happened. I’m dead, and you’re at this apartment because you miss me, or it’s because its the only home you have. I don’t know. I’ll never know, probably, because… I’m gone already. _

_ But. _

_ I painted this for you, because I knew that you’d want something to remember me by. I’ve never been one for pictures, and if I do take a picture, and then I don’t die, that's… awkward, now I’ve gotta destroy it, because that’s physical evidence that I exist, and y’know, in our line of work, god forbid. _

_ A painting can be passed off as just a character. Or a very suspicious lookalike of me. You’ll know the truth. Only you, George. _

_ Only you. _

_ I’m hoping I get to finish it. But… as I’m writing this, tomorrow, we’re going to do something that I know won’t end well for us. I think it might be… time’s up, game over, for me, anyway. I’d never let anything happen to you. But, reading this, I need you to know, right now, that I’ve accepted it. That I’ll take this loss. I’ll take the damage. I’ll take it all, for you, George. You have a brighter future than I do. I’m… too far gone, I’m broken, I don’t think I could stop hurting or manipulating people unintentionally if I tried. I don’t think it would work with us. I think I’d only keep hurting you. _

_ And that’s okay. Because it’s okay to hurt, and in this case, it means you’re moving forward. _

_ This was best, for all of us. I know one day you’ll see that. If it’s any consolation, if there is some other realm, some other place where your soul goes after death, then… wherever it is, I’ll be waiting for you. Always. If I can, I’ll be right alongside you.  _

_ Close your eyes, right now. Can you do that for me? Close your eyes. _

George swallowed, slowly closing his eyes, feeling tears drip down his cheeks. He was swaddled in Dream’s jacket, and he slowly wrapped his arms around himself, taking in the scent. 

Coffee and paint.

He stayed there for… he’s not even sure how long. He stood there, hugging himself and crying. He must look insane, but he doesn’t care, because this is him healing. This is him moving forward. 

This is acceptance.

Finally, he opened his eyes again, and read the last few lines of the letter.

_ Did you do it? Did you really? _

George smiled, and he could almost imagine Dream tutting and him and teasing him, that dumb smile on his face. He’d make George laugh, make him feel safe, all over again. Domesticality. What he wouldn’t give for just another moment.

“I did,” he whispered to the air. “I did it, Dream.”

_ Did you feel me, hugging you? _

“I felt you,” he croaked, tears falling down his cheeks and hitting the wooden boards beside his feet. “I felt you, Dream.”

_ Good. Because I was. Whenever you miss me, even for a second, do that, okay? Know that I’m there, hugging you. Holding you. Consoling you. Know that no god, no devil, no man, no spirit, no separation of Death can keep me from you. Nothing, George. Nothing can tear me away from you. _

_ I’ll always be there. _

_ I love you, endlessly. In this life, and even more in the next. _

_ Forever yours. _

_ \--Dream _

He took a few deep breaths, slowly sinking to his knees as he cried. He clutched the letter to his chest, the gentle crinkling of paper and his hiccups the only sobs in the room. 

Maybe, if you really focused, there was also a termite currently nibbling the last leg of the decrepit coffee table.

-

Months later, his days were spent more peacefully. 

He’d been going to therapy, he’d been talking with Niki, and through her, he’d met other friends. Wilbur, Karl and his boyfriend, and a few others. He’d been much more at ease, he’d been living a good life. A happy life. 

Learning how to heal.

Each night, he’d get coffee and a muffin, and then go work on Dream’s painting. He’d began to finish it. It was little things, the little tasks that he could manage to keep Dream’s memory alive. He’d donated some of the paintings to local art museums, where they’d been lovingly accepted with open arms, all the while he continued to work on adding the final touches to his work in progress.

It was messy, but so was everything. It gave him something to do. His own little way of keeping Dream alive.

When he finished it, when he finally did, he hung it up right beside his angel portrait. 

He stepped back and looked at them side by side for a moment, and smiled.

It wasn’t that bad at all.

He moved onto the stupid couch, easing down into a laying position. He made a mental note to call the goddamn terminator tomorrow, so he can start fixing this place up, too.

He closed his eyes.

And he went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. sappy author time. 
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who came along for this ride, for the few people that've been here since the beginning--thank you. thank you a thousand times, thank you for being here. thank you for believing in me, more than i believed in me, and thank you for sticking it to the end.
> 
> thank you the most to elle (@ERR0RGEO on twitter!) for being the most integral part in my finishing this. i almost gave up on it. _almost._ but she helped me continue. i'm so grateful. thank you elle for working on one of the chapters with me, thank you for always theorizing with me, thank you for hyping me up when i didn't even believe in myself.
> 
> thank you. thank you. thank you. 
> 
> i only hope that this lived up to your, and everyone else's, expectations. that being said--
> 
> i love this universe WAY too much to let it go JHSFNDGK. so i'm going to be writing another add-on to this, called "dust to dust (icarus)" that will show you some of the more integral, important scenes, from dream's pov!
> 
> i'm toying with the idea of an epilogue, too; like a decade in the future, going back to george to see what he's doing, but i'm not entirely sure. i like george's story ending where it did :] but we'll see. i just love this universe, man. i don't wanna let it go yet.
> 
> thank you for reading, as always.
> 
> if you like this, and you wanna be notified when i post the little add-on from dream's pov, follow me on twitter! @mitikune_ :] you'll see some other really cool insider exclusives there too, like pieces of wips that sometimes don't get posted, etc. you won't regret it :]
> 
> love you all so much. thank you for reading. i love you!


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